


XENA: Warrior Princess: The Beginning of the Journey and Beyond

by FlyingPigPoet



Category: Xena: Warrior Princess
Genre: F/F, F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-12-17
Updated: 2017-03-21
Packaged: 2018-09-09 02:33:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 44,931
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8872378
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FlyingPigPoet/pseuds/FlyingPigPoet
Summary: Gabrielle joins Xena on her journey and learns to be a fighter. Xena is attracted to Gabrielle but is afraid to say anything. Roughly seasons 1-5, so far





	1. Season One: Beginning the Journey

When the Past Travels with You

 

When the past travels with you, you think that you are  
Not travelling alone. You think that the ghosts of your victims  
Ride before and behind you, an army like all the other armies  
You ever led, but this one only you can see. You think if you  
Did not travel alone, your companions might see the ghosts  
As well, realize the enormity of your crimes, look at you  
With fear. I used to like that look. It meant I was strong,  
Invincible, that I was doing my job right. That was then.

When you travel from city to village, you remember everything  
You did and try to remember why it seemed so necessary, why  
The metallic scent of blood on the ground smelled sweet.  
Just the other day, I rode through a burnt-out village, still  
Remembering the flames, the thrilling sound of my soldiers  
Chanting my name as those flames licked the night sky,  
Punctuated by screams. Riding through the ruins by day,  
I met a boy who asked me for food. He said that Xena killed

His parents, riding down out the sky in a chariot, throwing  
Lightning bolts like Zeus. I gave him my last bread and cheese.  
I think I thought I would not be needing it. In the forest,  
I buried my armor and weapons, thinking I would no longer  
Be needing them, but the Fates had other ideas. Screams,  
This time real, came down the path: village men and women  
Surrounded by bandits with swords and spears. One young  
Woman offered to go with them herself if her friends were spared.

That changed my resolve. I fought them with a suicidal, maniacal  
Ferocity, just as the woman was fighting hopelessly but bravely.  
I was not enough, fighting open-handed, fell beneath their attack,  
Then dug up my weapons and finished the job. I recognized  
Draco's emblem, sent my regards with a punch to the face.  
The villagers brought me back to Potidaea, bandaged my wounds.  
Then I moved on. Perhaps my death is near, but there is still  
One more thing I must try to do first, in Amphipolis.

 

 

 

G. Talks Her Way Seventy Miles Northeast

 

Though I could not talk the bandits out of taking  
Our village women and my sister, at least I can talk  
My sister into accepting that I have to go, leave  
Potidaea, Perdicus, this village life that seems so  
Small to me. This warrior woman was a revelation.  
I never expected a woman could strike out  
On her own, hold her own in combat with men,  
Choose her own road, and travel it on her own.

Finally, I am getting to see the wider world, places  
That have only ever been names on maps to me.  
Now the wide green countryside spreads itself  
Before me. This adventuress stuff isn't so hard!  
At least I thought that before a blind Cyclops  
Caged me. My prayers to Zeus to curse him if he ate  
Me failed, so I told him I knew the warrior princess,  
But since she blinded him, that did not help me.

Thinking quickly, I claimed to be on her trail to kill her:  
Painted myself as the kind of young, innocent-looking  
Girl who could catch her off guard as no man would,  
And get close enough to do her some serious trouble.  
I offer him her eyeballs, say we are bonded in our hate  
For the She-Demon. "Xena's blood, or die!" I shout  
As I sidle away and get back on her trail again. Thank  
The gods for dumb Cyclopses and my bardic training.

But it is a long road, and my feet tire. I lie in the middle  
Of the road until a carter comes along, and I spin yet  
Another tale of a rich father in Amphipolis who would  
Pay him on my return. When that doesn't work, I offer  
To tell him the story of Oedipus, most tragic of men.  
Thank Apollo, this old man knew Oedipus and falls  
For my girlish charm. With my eagerness to hear his tale,  
I might just get to Amphipolis while she is still there.

 

 

Home

 

I remember the lands around Amphipolis like I remember  
My mother's hands, strong from carrying water and ale casks,  
A bit worn from cleaning the inn and tavern, her long hands  
Like mine. The skyline tugs at my heart, but I will not tear up.

When I arrive home to Amphipolis, the women are bringing  
In the sheaves, singing the harvesting songs I remember  
From my youth. This music also presses against my chest,  
But I have been a warrior for more than ten years. I will not cry.

At her tavern in Amphipolis, I gather my courage. She draws  
My sword from its sheathe and I do not know what to expect,  
I, who always strategize for the future. She says neither weapons  
Nor I am welcome here. Draco told me this would happen.

I offer to organize a defense of Amphipolis, to fight Draco's army,  
But all she remembers is the past: my brother's death in that old  
War, how so many died under my command. She says this is not  
My town, that she is not my mother. I leave to let her cool off.

I return for my sword, suggest if they won't mount a defense,  
They should evacuate. Then the villagers tell Cyrene that "my army"  
Is burning fields, shouting my name. She says, "Do what you will  
With her." My own mother. I drop my sword, tell them to go ahead.

Just as I am being stoned by my own people, abandoned by my own  
Mother, this young woman comes in and talks fast. Logic dictates,  
She argues, that even if I am Draco's woman, killing me will only  
Make him even more angry. They see the sense in it, let me go.

At my brother's tomb, I talk to the one person I know will understand  
Me, though I lost my way for so long. I tell him I thought I could start  
Over. But no. I can't blame the villagers. They can't see into my heart. I wish  
He were here. It's hard to be alone. She appears, says, "You're not alone."

 

 

 

Draco, Nostalgic, Proposes a Duel

 

I always hoped to be with her, in love or war, and now  
I say I want her, one way or the other. I tell her, "Celebrate  
Your dark side. Ride with me." She chooses the other way.  
Her loss. I choose the weapons: staves. She chooses our  
Conditions, a high scaffolding, and whoever hits the ground  
First, dies. She was always a show-off, but the excitement  
That always surrounds combat, that always surrounded her,  
Energizes me. Staff to staff, we fight, the way I always hoped  
To fight her, mind to mind. She is the one warrior I ever met  
Who could, possibly, best me in a fight, and I relish the chance

To show her my mettle, prove to her my worth. The scaffold  
Was genius on her part, as it makes our footing precarious,  
But that serves me as much as it serves her. She is stronger  
Than I remember but the bamboo pipes of the scaffold  
Are weaker, and mine hold better than hers. I sense victory  
Almost in my grasp as she falls, barely catches herself,  
Hanging inches away from the ground from death. I strike her  
Hands ask her, "Why are you doing this? They are sheep!  
You are going to die for them and they despise you."  
But even as the tide turns, the people, her people, change

Their tune, shouting, "Get him, Xena!" It is enough to give her  
A new energy. She catches my staff between her feet, flips  
Back up to the scaffold, knocks me off, where I balance  
On the villagers' heads. She follows, as the villagers offer  
Her their shoulders and heads for her feet and we continue  
The staff fight. She strikes first my left foot and then my left  
And then a aerial kick to my chest sends me to the ground.  
She lands on my chest. My soldiers refuse to finish me.  
She lets me live. She lets me swear on Ares' head to leave  
The area, so when one of my men tries to knife her, I kill him. 

A deal's a deal, after all, and I recognize luck when I see it.

 

 

 

The First Campfire

 

Having received my mother's forgiveness, so long  
Coming, having heard her call me Little One for the first  
Time in a decade or more, I am softened and raw.  
So when this young woman shows up at my meager  
Campfire, this Gabrielle who talks so smoothly, who says  
She will follow me even though she cannot build

A fire, claims the mosquitoes are as big as eagles, I tell  
Her I will send her home in the morning. She does  
Not know about my past, how what she has seen me do  
Is such a small scene in the epic tragedy that has been  
My life. She says she won't stay home, that she will  
Find me when things are going wrong, and talk me out

Of the problem again, as she just did. She says that  
She doesn't belong in her village, that she is not the girl  
Her parents wanted her to be. I know that feeling.  
She thinks I wouldn't understand, but it's not easy  
Proving you are a different person than people expect.  
She sees that I do understand, although I still think

She's making a huge mistake, taking me for a good person.  
But perhaps I can learn something from her, from her  
Innocence, her fresh take on the world, that I lost long ago.  
I throw her sleeping furs, tell her to sleep on the other side  
Of the campfire. I warn her that where I'm going, there  
Will be danger. She says that friends stand by each other  
When there's danger. I say, "All right. Friend."

 

 

 

Because You Need to Know

 

Like many things, it started slow and innocent  
Enough, tagging after my brothers, rough-housing.  
They thought it amusing to teach their sister  
The sword arts, but I took to it as though  
I’d been born with a sword in my hand, like  
Athena springing from the head of Zeus,  
Ready for battle. Mother disapproved.  
But when the warlords came to take our town  
The people followed me. We beat them back.

Which was the fateful day? When did I fall  
In love with the fierce joy of combat  
For its own sake? The fear and excitement  
Lit a fire in me, and I was dry tinder  
Just waiting for the spark, a polished blade  
Gleaming with sun in the bright air, with the metallic  
Scent of blood as it sprays the earth.  
At first I simply wanted a guarantee  
Of safety for Amphipolis, like a firebreak

That halts the danger long enough for the fire  
To burn itself out. I thought if I took just one  
Or two villages nearby, if I gathered men  
And armed them, sent them on raids, commanded  
Their loyalty... At some point, I became the thing  
I had feared, the black-hearted marauder, pirate,  
Warlord. My hunger was insatiable,  
My rage a tidal wave. Where did it  
Come from, this burning lust for war?

Maps of the known world looked empty.  
Like Alexander, I longed to write my name  
On every city from here to India.  
When Caesar spoke of destiny, I thought  
I smelled the answer, the daimon of my fate.  
The world was calling out for a conqueror  
And I answered. By then, I couldn’t have  
Stopped if I had wanted to. The summer days  
When I was a little girl were forgotten,

The time before I was strong and powerful.  
Oh, I took the world by its testicles  
And pulled. I guess that’s why I always want  
To protect you. You remind me of who I was,  
Before, not the warmonger leaving thousands  
Dead on battlefields from Greece to Mongolia,  
But the little girl with her life before her,  
Wrestling with her brothers on summer days  
That were long and slow, and innocent enough.

 

 

 

G.'s Purchase

 

Once, after a particularly good harvest,  
My father took us to Thessaly to buy material  
For dresses for my cousin's wedding. Lila,  
Who cares about such things, was thrilled,  
Running her hands over every piece of cloth,

Looking at the weave in the light, arguing  
The merits of color and texture. She took  
An hour to decide. I think of her now here  
In this weaponer's shop as I consider  
The weight of this proud scimitar over

The covert possibilities of this breast dagger.  
Looking at the price makes my decision easy.  
Telling tales in taverns for the odd dinar  
Is good work, but will never make me wealthy.  
In retrospect, I really should have known

That she would know something was different  
At a glance. It's like she can smell a weapon  
From ten feet away. When it fell through,  
She knew what it was at once, told me that  
A weapon you don't know how to use

Belongs to your enemy, carefully put it  
Inside her breastplate, condescending again,  
As always, saying, "Wisdom before weapons,"  
And I think, sure, she should keep it. It's not like  
Her breasts weren't already deadly enough.

 

 

 

Words before Weapons: G. Fights off Panic and X. Gets It Done

This is the method of attacking by strategem of  
using the sheathed sword. --Sun Tzu, The Art of War

G.  
I thought I wanted this, a sword in my hand,  
A feeling of safety, the power to defend myself  
And others. But outnumbered in my first battle,  
Holding a newly broken sword, I had to use  
Cunning instead, let my enemies take each other  
Out, while I ducked and rolled and felt decidedly  
Unheroic. She got a message to me that this  
Evil god cult wanted me to spill blood, to kill  
One of the fighters testing me that I could not  
Do it if I did not want to be sacrificed on the altar  
Of Morpheus, god of the sleeping conscience.  
She said the old sages swore that talking  
Was superior to taking up the sword, but  
I had never heard of the sages she spoke of.

Supreme excellence consists in breaking  
the enemy’s resistance without fighting. --Sun Tzu

X.  
If she kills, I have lost her, the one I promised  
To take with me on my journey and protect.  
I know she is good at talking, so I trust her  
To use her way with words to get around her  
Enemies, maybe pit them against themselves.  
I had not thought I trusted her before. She seemed  
A child so often, but when it came time, I knew  
She would come through. Funny, that. I never  
Was much for words myself. Sure, to manipulate  
People, but not to replace my sword. And she did it,  
She held them off while I worked through the puzzle  
Morpheus had given me, realizing I could destroy  
My old destructive self, there in the dreamworld  
Overcome the lust for power, and wake up.

He will win who knows when to fight and when  
not to fight. --Sun Tzu

 

 

The Path Abandoned

 

X.  
"If curiosity is the food of life, then adventure is a meal," she says  
As if she is quoting someone but to me it sounds like something  
She would say. She talks about adventure, but she doesn't know  
The true definition of it or the cost. Really, she doesn't know much.  
Take this roadside tavern, for example. She gets a drink as I glance  
Around to see all the seats taken. All around us, the "salt of the earth"  
As she calls them, drunken farmers, shopkeepers, the occasional  
Mercenary soldier: they all come out of the woodwork with their  
Grabby hands, cheap propositions. She keeps talking. No problem.  
Backfist, elbow, stream of fire: the tavern clears of the worst of them.  
She says, "Did you ever notice how we never have any trouble  
Getting a table?" I grunt, "Mystery to me" and we sit down.

I sit down, take a quaff of ale, lean back, one foot on the table's edge.  
Some young man, almost her equal in innocence and lack of road  
Smarts, sets a bag of gold in front of me and says, "That's if you  
Are for hire." She gets the wrong impression, but I explain to her  
The difference between the way a man propositions a woman  
Of negotiable affection and the way a prince tries to buy an assassin.  
He says killing is not the point. There is a princess to save. Well,  
Isn't there always? I tell the prince to give his bag of gold to the poor,  
Leave him with her, eyes ablaze, in story-telling mode. I know  
She is afraid that I will go to Trachus, see all the arms dealers,  
Murderers and mercenaries and decide that I like it enough to return.  
She forgets how little in my old life was about liking anything.

G.  
I'm a sucker for a romantic story. So when this prince Agranon  
Tells me how he met the princess Jana by a stream on a hot summer day,  
I instantly decide I can help him stop the war between their two nations.  
Let Xena handle the arms dealer, Mezentius. I am going to broker peace  
Between these nations, bring parted lovers back together again. Isn't that  
The role of stories, to heal the world? Then, strung up in the dungeon 

Of Jana's father, the king, I do my best to convince Agranon of my ability  
To talk our way out of this mess as I have talked my way out of so many  
Things before. But as always, I overestimate my abilities. I fantasize  
That I am her sidekick. I should know better. I still don't even know if  
She considers me her friend, the way she considered this man who gave  
His life for the princess. I think, as I hear her lament, I have much to learn.

 

 

A Lesson in Power

 

It was bad enough that I took off Argo's bridle, after she asked me  
To take care of her, since that slowed her down from chasing  
The bandits she had just been fighting. I apologized, but she said,  
"Don't be sorry. Just improve." That stung. After all, "take care of"  
Is very unspecific language. It could have meant anything. I simply  
Interpreted it to mean I should let Argo graze. Apparently not.

So when I wandered into a torchlit cavern where monks and  
A young woman in white were trying a chant that they said  
Would solve their village's problems, I saw a chance to use  
My not inconsiderable knowledge of Greek poetic forms  
To help them out. Imagine trying to use Ionian rhythm  
For a Doric chant. Laughable, really. What I didn't expect

Was that my effective combination of appropriate rhythm  
Andmy virginity loosed three Titans from where they had  
Long ago been imprisoned in stone by Zeus. When they pledged  
Me their loyalty, I immediately made use of them to save Xena  
From the tavern where she held one ruffian hostage from twelve  
Of his angry friends. Did she thank me? No. But the villagers did. 

They even cheered for me, until the Titans came back and insisted  
I use my godlike powers to make a feast for them. When I couldn't,  
Attacked the village. I sought to make things better and only made  
Everything worse. In contrast, when she went off to save the children  
From the Titans, she completed her mission. How does she always do that? 

And even when those two bandits captured her and tried to sell her  
To the Titans, she got away, went back to the caverns, spied on the Titans,  
Learned of their plan to awaken the other hundred Titans sleeping  
In the stone. I have come to expect such efficient heroics from her.  
I just wish that she would not always dismiss me out of hand, as she did  
When the young priest suggested that I read the reversal spell to put

The Titans back to sleep. She has no respect for me. And the look  
She gave me when she saw me waking up in the priest's arms, that  
Could have peeled paint off an innkeeper's sign. She said she doesn't  
Think I am still a kid, but she does. So I made a choice, I took a risk,  
And I sneaked off to the caverns in the dark, hoping to find the spell  
That would put them back to sleep. But captured and stalling for time,

At least I knew she wouldn't leave me there to be forced to read the spell  
That would release the army of Titans that would unleash Tartarus  
On earth. She always has a plan, especially when my plans fail  
So miserably. By the time she showed up, I was drastically  
Mispronouncing the chant they wanted, then told them I was  
No longer a virgin. Their rage was briefly contained by Xena

And the villagers, but the angriest Titan broke free and it was close,  
But I read the correct scroll and encased them in stone again. So, yes,  
She saved the day again, as always, while I only helped. All my mistakes,  
Trying to rule the world with the Titans, messing with Argo's reins?  
She says she could never hate me, that my heart is always in the right place,  
That our friendship comes first. I have to believe for now that this is enough.

 

 

 

 

Reckoning with the Consequences

 

G.  
Six weeks into our journey together, you get framed  
For a multiple murder I am sure you did not commit.  
First, we ran, you, me, and Argo, but then we were trapped.  
You negotiated my safety and surrendered. Why?  
We will prove your innocence. Justice will prevail. Sure,  
You told me to get away from here if anything happened,  
To save myself, but is that what you would do? Ever?  
I understand you are feeling a little negative, but don't  
Give into that. I will get you out of this, I promise you.

A.  
Look at you. Hardly a suitable situation for a warrior  
Princess, hanging from two chains attached to your wrists,  
Your hands and arms slowly losing all feeling, the prickle  
Of your nerves responding to the slowed circulation  
Of your blood. I pull back my black hood and you recognize  
Me: Ares, god of war. Who else could outfight your sword?  
I massage your aching soldiers, give you a vision of what we  
Were or could have been or could still be: a palace with wine  
And food, sleeping furs, romantic candlelight, and extra dresses  
In your size and color. Midnight blue silk becomes you. I help you  
Out of your linen shift and into something more comfortable.  
I have gathered thousands of the best warriors, willing to die  
If you command it. You could use force to mold the world  
To your chosen shape. All you need to do is call upon me.

X.  
They are dragging me in effigy, a proxy. I cannot blame them.  
I see what Ares has set me up to do, what he has set up these  
People to do, these innocents who call for my blood. They have  
Eye-witnesses who saw me standing over the dead with bloody  
Hands and a sword streaked with blood, and no one else around.  
They don't stop until Gabrielle wraps her own throat with my rope,  
Her courage a symbol of what she and this village magistrate believe:  
That somehow true justice is possible. That was dumb. 

A.  
Never really believing in justice, I am untethered from this moral  
Code some of these mortals seem to share, or try to. Take this  
Sidekick, whose only skill is talking. She doesn't understand how  
I can both make and eliminate my footprints as I please. Has she  
Never made a sacrifice to the gods? Has she never watched  
A dramatic tragedy? Does this self-proclaimed bard really know  
Absolutely nothing of epic tragedy? We immortals can rearrange  
Reality to suit ourselves any time we want. I watch the epic drama  
Of the trial with great enthusiasm. All these witnesses seem  
So very believable. Then they bring in the wounded survivor,  
Unable to speak in full sentences. His testimony is damning.

X.  
The guards choose to torture me between the courthouse drama  
And the sentencing. I am chained, my hands raised to the heavens  
But certainly not in the worship of Ares. Rather, redemption is my goal,  
Not a typical goal for a Greek of my time and place. I can see Ares  
In the background, hoping to hear my plea, telling me I am  
Unstoppable, unbeatable. He wants me to summon forth my  
Super-mortal strength that I learned from him, beat up angry  
Village men, break my chains, break the door down, give them  
Twice what they gave me with a wild yell. When she comes looking for me,  
She does not expect me to be free and fighting, she does not expect  
My response to be violent, not against her. Shocked and fearful,  
Holding her injured jaw, she runs. I stay, to heal the men I have harmed. 

G.  
By the side of the village stream, I sat, a bit in shock, holding a cold  
Wet rag to my jaw to reduce the swelling from where she hit me.  
I have seen her in combat before. Like a cyclone she goes from one  
Opponent to the next, without stopping, without thinking. She said  
Once, "If you have to take time to think, you won't act fast enough.  
The strikes have to happen without you." Now I know what that  
Meant. In real fights, accidents happen. Armies call that collateral  
Damage, but I saw the look on her face right after: still half wild  
But also half appalled, as the fighting frenzy stuttered to a halt.  
Never mind. I will find Argo and some rope, pull the bars out  
Of her prison window, so she can escape these bloodthirsty villagers.

X.  
Tricking Ares into sending back the men he killed from the land  
Of the dead was the easy part. Trying to communicate my regret  
For hitting her, my gratitude for her advocacy before, and for her  
Coming back to save me afterward, that is the task that will require  
Learning the kind of words that as a warlord I never needed.

 

Reconnecting: Hercules Speaks

“You’re not much for girl talk, are you?  
Of course, you’re not like most girls.” --G. to X.

 

Your friend is right. You are not like most, whether  
Girl or epic hero. Your rage still lies close  
To the surface, a tool to be saved, and used  
When the time of danger comes, and returns,  
And returns, and returns. At a moment's notice,  
You turn it outward, with glee, a strange set  
Of companions to hold in your heart. We made  
A pretty good team once, too, the son of a god  
And the daughter of an innkeeper, turned warlord,  
Then reformed. I hear you’ve been helping people  
To find your purpose. So yes, I do believe  
The world needs you at least as much as me. 

I will not see you sacrifice the life I helped turn  
To the service of the world, not now. You mean too much  
To me. It is easier to hold up a wall of rocks  
On my back than to change your mind when you  
Have made it up. Any other time I would find that  
Admirable, but now you are risking your one, sweet  
Life when I could do it for you, save the world  
Without your cold corpse haunting my days.  
Selfish? Yes, but sometimes I wonder if  
We shared a soul once, and if I can do  
Anything to prevent your untimely death,  
That would be a labor worth undertaking.

 

 

 

 

What We Might Regain: G. Contemplates

 

Sometimes I wonder what she sees in me.  
Sometimes I think of that story Plato wrote  
About the people with four legs and two heads  
That Zeus got all upset about and split  
With lightning bolts, leaving us all asunder:  
Only two legs, one head, and half a soul.

If, when Prometheus was rebound and doomed  
To have his liver eaten by foul birds,  
Day after day, mortals lost his gifts:  
Fire and healing. Then what would it mean  
If some heroes saved him? What does it mean  
That she lets me travel with her, unable

To help with her adventures? It is intimidating,  
Sometimes, watching her work like she is  
A female Hercules. The sword is one thing,  
But backflips and double kicks? I have begun  
To write it all down, as Homer did for Achilles  
And Odysseus. More people should know of her

Brilliance. Too, I sometimes wonder, if  
Saving Prometheus will bring us back our fire  
And ability to heal ourselves, what would we  
Gain if she ever found that hero, the one  
Who somehow in another human body holds  
The other half of her enormous soul?

 

 

 

X., Problem Solver, Executes the Plan

 

X.  
Maybe it's me, but ever since the Amazon battle, it seems  
She is acting with more initiative, her plans are less half-baked,  
And she intuits my plans better. So there I am, getting Xerxes  
To agree to pay me to infiltrate his dungeon, identify  
The Black Wolf, and incidentally get a pair of much-needed  
New boots. It works like a charm, the fight in the center of town  
With the chief of security, a man I throw into the cheese stand  
For verisimilitude. I tell him not to worry, that he will win  
In the end. I get thrown into the dungeon, reconnect with  
The woman who was like my little sister ten years ago,  
And present my plan to the wolfpack. Fifteen belts, four ropes  
And three propositions later, we are ready for our attempt  
At escape. What I did not plan for was that the security chief  
Would have a man inside the dungeon, feeding him information.  
So that did not go according to plan, but you learn to think  
On your feet, when you are an epic hero. I get them to throw me  
Back in, I prove myself to the revolutionaries by fighting but not  
Killing the man they think I think is their leader. The plan goes on.

G.  
How hard can it be to get yourself arrested in this town?  
First I try throwing a tomato at the local guards, but instead  
They arrest the businessman, even though I told them it was  
Me. I guess they assume that I'd throw like a girl. Idiots. I hear  
About the escape attempt, and how the apparent traitor got sent  
Right back to the revolutionaries, back in the dungeon again.  
Plan beta. This time, I think, custard is the answer. Anybody can  
Throw custard, after all, and it is more humiliating than simple  
Ripe vegetables. Success! They even escort me down personally.  
Down in the dank depths, I ask around for her. "Excuse me,  
Have you seen Xena? She's tall. She's beautiful. Piercing blue eyes?  
Swings a mean right hook." She is surprised to see me. Really?  
She gets herself thrown into a dungeon and expects me to do  
Nothing? She should know me better by now. If she is here  
She wants to be here and has a plan to get out. And she will  
Need my help. She wouldn't ask for it, of course, but  
She knew I would come and bring her chakram and whip.

F.  
Ten years ago, when we were a gang of kids, right before  
The warlords attacked our villages, I followed her like a puppy.  
She taught me to swing a sword and embroider for my  
Wedding chest. There was a tall oak tree, there by the river  
That she and all the older kids would climb, leaving me  
Down below. She would reach down her arm for me, say,  
"You've got to have faith." but when I reached for her hand,  
She would pull it away. How could someone I admired  
So much treat me like that? Now, seeing her again,  
I see how much she and I have changed. I finally realize  
Why she never gave me her hand to climb that tree.  
It was me she wanted me to have faith in. She wanted me  
To learn not to wait around for other people to offer their hands.  
As we talk, I realize that she knows who the Black Wolf is.  
The others thought she could be fooled, But I knew  
She'd figure it out. So it was an act of faith on my part  
When Xena called me out as the Black Wolf to Xerxes,  
Not knowing that Xena planned a reverse execution,  
A mass escape of prisoners, a battle royal, and in the end,  
To return the newly freed Black Wolf to her mother.

 

 

 

 

Treasure Hunters

G: So what's this Petracles like?  
X: He's a warlord. He's an ambitious, ruthless, conniving, dominating liar. He'll say  
anything to get a woman to fall for him, and then once he has her, he uses her.  
G: So you've met.  
X: We were to be married.

 

G.  
So many surprises. First hearing she had a fiancé, then meeting him:  
Strong, apparently ruthless, but charming. She told me never to turn  
My back on him. Does she hate him? Maybe. He considers the pinnacle  
Of his sweet-talking ability was his talking her into marrying him.  
I have to admit, that's impressive. She asks me not to talk to him.  
She looks sad, but I insist that I am an adult and I can handle myself.  
In the misty forest, we head toward Sumer, chased by drum-pounding  
Warriors, harried by blue-feathered arrows. Petracles secures  
The far side of the rope bridge across the chasm, but Thersites follows  
Too closely on my heals, and she is left to save me where I hang  
After Thersites climbs up my body and reaches the other side.  
In the aftermath, I am tempted by Petracles, as no doubt is his goal.

X.  
I sharpen my sword by the campfire, and they know I know, or  
At least, they think I know, and oh yes, I do. I see him give her  
All the same looks he gave me, and it is very familiar territory.  
He thinks I am jealous: of what? Of his seduction of her? Of her  
Misguided affection for him? Does it matter? I tell him that  
If he hurts her, I will rip out his throat. He tries to play the change  
Card, but I am not bidding. We feel rumbling in the earth.  
The volcano that is Mount Poulis is ready to blow. We figure out  
The riddle, she and I, from the boys' clues, I set the gem in the right  
Eye of the central statue. We wait for sunrise, which lights the way,  
Turning the ruby eye ablaze and opening a door into the mountain.  
At first it seems pointless. Then Petracles pulls the ring, revealing

Gold beyond anyone's imagining, jewels, but all I am looking for  
Is the Titan's key that will lead us to ambrosia, food of the gods,  
To avoid Thersites getting it. He would make a brutal god.  
Petracles and I traverse the hall of silence, but he steps  
On a skull, then we're running through the ensuing quake,  
Only to reach the ambrosia at the same time they do. We flank  
Them, but Petracles sounds like he wants to be on Thersites'  
Side. It is a ruse, but too late do I realize it. She works hard  
To save Petracles life when Thersites betrays him. I fight  
Thersites to a draw, force his assassin's wrist dagger to thrust  
Itself in his black heart. After that, we destroy the ambrosia  
We found, return it to the gods, and get back on the road.  
We're quiet as I ride and she walks; having faced my past and  
An uncertain future together, we now do not know how to talk.

 

 

 

X., Jaded, Rolls Her Eyes 

 

Everyone, she thinks, has some great love; she watches  
That boy and girl hold hands and tells herself  
They have something she is missing, something more  
Than the adventure, travel and new people she now  
Enjoys with me. I can’t really blame her. Even I  
Once made eyes at my brothers’ friends when I was  
Young and foolish. Even I had my small conquests  
With the village boys before I learned to make  
Larger conquests with my gathered armies.

Take that pacifist son of a warlord. Big blue eyes,  
Muscles, armor, a big sword, a soft voice.  
His reluctance to follow his father’s profession  
Makes her think he’s “sensitive.” Maybe he is.  
Certainly, the peaceful village farmers don’t  
Deserve the rapacious attention of the old man  
And his charioteers, the way they torched  
The village silo. I never killed women and children.  
But nobody would have ever called me sensitive.

And that dying lad she described as “warm and sensitive”  
(That word again!) “funny, perfect, smart.”  
He called her, she told me, “a rare beauty.” Yeah, he was nice,  
I’ll grant you. Helpful, too, in a dangerous situation,  
Because, like all of them, he wanted to save her.  
They always fall in love with her somehow.  
But it’s easy to be nice when you are counting  
Your final days. It’s easy to be brave when you have  
Come to terms with your own inevitable death.

And let’s not forget Hercules’ sidekick, who I once  
Seduced for a week, hoping he would turn  
On his friend. I guess I didn‘t tell her that part  
Of the story. Maybe I should. Though I suppose  
I probably shouldn’t use the word “stamina”  
Or “dynamo” to describe him. Maybe instead,  
I should tell her about the steam coming up from  
The bath and his bright eyes. After all, I wouldn’t  
Want her to think he was not sensitive.

 

Riding into Combat: G. Flashes Back

 

The staff still unfamiliar in my hands, I step  
Into the queen’s chariot at the head of this  
Mismatched army: Amazons and Centaurs riding  
Into combat together, on the same side  
For the first time either tribe’s sages can  
Remember. The rumble of chariot wheels is loud  
As we gather speed, but my terrified heart is louder.  
Behind me, I hear her war cry and I recall  
That with her on our side, we will likely win,  
Though that doesn’t guarantee I will survive  
Myself. I struggle to keep my feet as we roll  
Faster and faster down the hill where we can see  
The warlord’s army scrambling to grab  
Swords, spears, axes: all the ways I might die  
In the next minute or hour. My stomach in  
My throat, I nearly gag as the Centaur pulling us  
Slows, stops, slips off his harness. The roar  
Of the enemy, all men in black leather and purple  
Scars, is a chorus of sudden death, but I hear  
Her battle cry again and I turn to see  
Her grinning as she leaps to meet the first.  
If I have to die, then fighting by her side  
Is not the worst way to leave this life. I jump down.

 

 

 

Breathing Lessons

 

X., Out Loud

I saw you in battle. I was impressed. What you lack in finesse, you make  
up for in sheer ferocity. That will take you far in a short fight or a longer  
fight with an inexperienced foe. How you didn’t die out there, I don’t  
know. Maybe Artemis likes you, kid. But beginners luck won’t last and  
you’ve got bad habits. Tomorrow I’ll find a stick that I can use to  
practice with you. Meanwhile, you get some sleep, little warrior. You’ve  
earned it.

 

G., In Silence

Why does she always do that, call me a kid?  
It’s not enough that she towers above me  
Even before she mounts her horse. Somehow  
She always has to belittle me too. I think  
She doesn’t mean to. Her eyes are always kind,  
Or mostly. But all those weeks I begged her  
To teach me to defend myself and today,  
I went into mortal combat with a mere day’s  
Worth of practice with the staff. If I had died,  
It would have just been more blood on her hands.

 

X., Out Loud

You keep your stick close to your body, like this, to get a stronger pivot.  
It’s not the stick that does the work; it’s you, your body weight that  
gives your strike momentum. Commit yourself fully to each strike.  
A staff is not a sword. It metes out pain with both ends. Strike the man in  
front of you with the front end and use the momentum from that blow  
to hit the man behind you with the back. Try it. Again. Again. Again.  
Again. Again.

 

G., In Silence

My bruises from the Amazon battle purpling,  
I lie down stiffly, feeling the new ones rise.  
She shows me how to rub them out with my thumbs  
In a circling motion. Her hands are gentler, now  
That practice is over. I’ve never been so tired.  
At dawn it begins again. She’s so much stronger  
Than me. Even when I block her strikes, some hit me.  
But she looks tired, too. Normally she hates this  
Sort of thing, focusing on basics, endless basics,  
Endlessly explaining it to me, again and again.

 

X., Out Loud

Breathing now. To hold your own in a fight, you need stamina, and that  
means correct breathing. If you don’t want to get sucker punched, never  
let your enemy see you take a breath. Unless you are crying out to  
terrify the enemy, keep your mouth closed. It’s harder, at first, but  
better in the long run. In the East, they talk about the energy in the  
body. I learned some breathing techniques to produce more to protect  
the organs when you get hit. When you’re ready, I’ll teach you. We’re  
done for now. Tomorrow we’re back on the road.

 

G., In Silence

I am too tired to boil over. I ache too much to tear  
My bread apart. I stare at the fire and forget where  
My crackling muscles end and its golden ache starts.  
How many days have we camped here? When did my  
Calluses stop bleeding? She sets her saddle near me,  
Rests her head on it. She looks at me a long while, says,  
“I thought it’d take longer. You’re a quick learner.”  
A backhanded compliment for sure, but I smile, my mouth  
The one place I don’t hurt. She watches me, worried.  
I say, “Yes. Okay. Eventually, I will probably forgive you.”

 

 

 

 

X.'s First Epiphany

 

I think I never saw you before that day,  
Throwing yourself down to protect a wounded  
Amazon you didn't even know. I must have  
Thought you were a child. I didn't see  
The woman in you, Artemis, virgin goddess.  
The Amazons saw it immediately,  
Welcomed you as one of them, a strong  
Woman who just needed to learn to fight  
Her enemies. You took to the staff  
Like a natural. I could never have taught  
You. I didn't have the patience. Instead,  
I rolled my eyes at all of your young men,  
Your endless infatuations and talk about  
True love. I didn't see you searching  
For your purpose. For such has always been  
A woman's lot: a husband to feed, admire,  
Bear children for. I almost took that road,  
But I was spared. War became my husband,  
Brutal death my children: not the family  
Most of us would choose. It has been a long  
Journey away from that ambition. I had  
Forgotten what life can be like for others  
Who do not need redemption as I do.

And then I tested you in every way  
I knew, from sunrise to moonglow,  
Pushing you to rely on yourself and that staff,  
Forcing you to keep your temper. You hated me  
For the first few days, I know. I teased  
You, to see if you could keep focus. Wrongly,  
I had thought you were light, did not belong  
On my warrior’s road. But you fight  
With ferocity and I respect that. You have  
A fire inside, a mix of light and rage,  
Persistence, a burning desire to learn. In bed,  
You snore like a pirate, exhausted. Friend,  
You constantly surprise. You didn’t deserve my doubt.  
Little Warrior, I didn’t see you searching  
All those times you asked for lessons, power,  
I didn’t realize how terrified you had been  
All those times I was the only thing between  
Warlords and your brutal rape and death.  
Now, in combat, you fight like a banshee. No.  
You fight like an Amazon Queen. And so I will  
Teach you everything I know about the staff.  
I know no other way to say I’m sorry.

 

 

Secretly, X. Returns Early for the Performances

 

I sneaked in under a cloak, in time to see  
What I have seen so many times before:  
Young men, half in love with you, taking  
Your cause for their own. Just as you have  
Played advocate at my side more than once,  
So they also felt the need to stand and speak.  
Something makes you special. Everyone  
We come across recognizes it, instantly.  
Why didn’t I?

And then they asked you to tell a story.  
The tale you chose (with me as the hero,  
Yet again) had the baby as the bit that always  
Gets your listeners, who cannot imagine  
Bringing a baby into a swordfight. Well,  
It’s not like I planned it. As always, you win  
The audience. They are rapt, wrapped up in  
The tale you make so much more exciting  
Than it was at the time. 

They cannot know, the ones who think I am  
As strong, heroic, valiant, bold and wise  
As I appear in your stories, how sometimes  
I feel small when protecting the weakest ones,  
As if I am them. I don’t know. Maybe it is easier  
To fight when you are not reminded of what you were  
Once. Maybe that is why Athena skipped  
The womb and infancy and came to us full  
Grown, armed, armored.

Later, I followed you, hidden as you chased  
Down your eloquent friend. You told him  
He should be himself, and he believed you.  
It is hard not to believe you when you start  
Talking persuasively, when you talk from the heart.  
I sat cloaked and hooded, in the back corner at  
The final competition and watched you dazzle them  
With tales of our adventures, my prowess at  
Saving you, not you saving me.

In the end you returned to me, for the  
Adventures that inspire your tales. I fight,  
You write. I guess that is who we are now.  
Sometimes, at an inn, you earn our mulled wine  
By lying slightly about the things I do.  
And sometimes, in a tavern, I overhear  
Others say my name without fear, tell each  
Other of my exploits in your words, and then,  
Mistakenly, call me the hero.

 

 

 

Mortal Again

G.  
After all we've been through this last year, it's hard  
To hear her say, "The man I love has asked for my help  
To save good souls. I have to try this." I understand  
I need to let her go. It's not like I'm her soulmate, after all.  
What right have I to keep her from what she sees as her duty?  
And if that means diving into the Alcyonian Lake, swimming  
To the very depths to get to the gate into Tartarus, then  
That is what she will do. And I will wait here, on the other  
Side, on a day that is as bright as I have always imagined  
The Elysian Fields will be someday, years from now.

X.  
Drawn into Hades' domain, with stone walls, harpies and all,  
I use my many skills--sword-fighting, fire-breathing, even  
Negotiating--to get to the bottom of this switch between  
The inhabitants of Tartarus and those of Elysium. Seeing  
Hades practically powerless, despondent, mourning  
The loss of his helmet of invisibility, I remember why  
The gods never impress me. They always think with their  
Magic powers and, for some reason, never with their heads.

G.  
The madman asks me if by any chance I am about to be wed,  
Then attacks me. I fight him off with my staff, but he is just  
Too strong, too bloodthirsty. It's not until she and Marcus  
Rise up out of the lake and chase him off that I come to  
My senses, get introduced to the man she loves, and set out  
With them to find him before he does even more harm.

X.  
There is a moment, after I have killed Atyminius, again,  
When Marcus suggests we keep Hades' helmet, that it will  
Keep Marcus alive, that we could live out our lives. But he  
And I are too good to value our own happiness more  
Than our honor, and the tumult in Elysium and Tartarus  
Must be put right. So he lets me kill him in front of Hades  
And I argue such a good heart deserves paradise.  
When will I find such a heart for love ever again?

 

 

G. Contemplates the Sharpening Stone

 

Sometimes when she’s sharpening her sword  
I watch her long hands, her whole attention  
So locked on the blade, smoothing imperfections.  
Sometimes I wonder what made her such a hard  
Person to get to know, as though the armor  
Were on the inside. She loves the fight.  
I’ve seen her grin while skewering a warlord  
With that sword, laughing at the joy  
Of using her body, pushing herself, testing  
Herself against soldiers, pirates, any evil  
Will do. It was slavers when I first met her.  
I remember the thrill of her war cry as I tried  
To fight to save my sister. I wasn’t much good.  
She saved me from two futures on that day,  
Not just the auction block, but the daily round:  
Farming, children, neighbors, village gossip.  
Life on the road is better. Even when  
Whole days go by without her talking,  
More is said than in weeks of talk back home.

Sometimes I think she knows I’m watching her,  
Silently daring me to ask what she’s thinking.  
I know better now. She’ll say, “My sword”  
Or “Dinner” and then she’ll go fishing. My hands  
Will stink of fish guts for a week. The best  
Decision I ever made was to follow her,  
But it isn’t always easy. Not just the fighting,  
Though I am learning to love it. Not just  
Nights on the cold hard ground, or the way  
She never tells me the whole plan. I have  
Even learned to be silent and not fill up  
The evening with chatter, letting her  
Keep her thoughts to herself. No, it’s the scars  
On her otherwise perfect thigh, the pale white  
Tracery she never talks about. Where was  
The battle? Which side was she on?  
Who died? Does she miss her old life,  
Riding at the head of armies, seducing  
Warlords for her amusement? I cannot ask.

 

Many Skills

 

It started with her sudden reckoning of the days, the realization  
that she would shortly be a year older. The next town we passed  
through, I looked frantically for a gift, some small beautiful thing,  
to say, very carefully, how I saw her. Flowers die. Jewelry can hurt  
you in a fight. I came away with linen and yellow thread, 

a new needle, a nervous idea.

It took a while to remember just how tight the linen had to be on  
the frame. I often became distracted, thinking of her lightly tanned  
skin in the sun. I chose her favorite flower, yellow fennel, with its  
trident shape, to twine along the edges of the square. She was the  
one who taught me to appreciate flowers, beauty for its own sake,

a focus on something other than the sword.

Any time I stepped away, I stitched in secret: while fishing or after  
quickly gathering firewood. I think she suspected nothing. I often  
seek solitude when my feelings become confused. She will think  
I am reckoning the number of dead in my past, wallowing in my  
guilt. She cannot know how little I remember my pain

when I look in her eyes.

I finished the handkerchief just before dawn on the day. I had cut  
bread and cheese before she woke. I watched her eat with such  
easy appetite for simple things. Gruffly, I handed her my gift. “Oh,  
yeah. This is for you.” Her eyes sparkled with a tangle of surprise  
and joy. She knew I had such skills, but innocently 

never expected an offering from me.

She fingered the spray of gold flowers, complimenting me on the  
evenness of my stitches, the patience she did not think she would  
have for such an effort. Patience? No. This is not patience, dear  
one. It is hardened self-discipline and timidity. Oh, yes, it’s true. I  
have many skills. Not one of which is knowing how in the world

to tell or show her how I really feel.

 

Gifts Bearing Greeks

We all move uneasily within our restraints. --Kay Redfield Jamison.

 

1\. Helen of Troy Regrets

Shadow warriors have come to invade my dreams  
Reflecting the long bloodbath being committed  
In and outside this city by my father and my lover.  
The shadows have bloody swords and gap toothed grins,  
Patched eyes, bandaged limbs. But Paris, my lover,  
Is still perfect, for now. Would he today still  
Say the same of me? Does he even see me at all?

Ten years ago, it seemed romantic to elope  
To Troy, to be admired by the friends of Paris  
And other Trojans. Men fell silent seeing me,  
The women set to bickering. Always  
These responses have come, loudly, just before  
I can even speak. I gathered a few women  
Around me, slaves and girls to help me set

My face for the day, arrange my hair for evening  
With Paris. I rarely go outside into the populous  
Part of the city. They say it is not safe, wise, or  
A sight for a woman's eyes. For six or seven  
Years, I held my tongue, accepted smaller rations,  
Accepted an even more circumscribed life  
Here in Troy, with my beloved, than I might

Have had back home, in peace, among my family.  
Thousands have died in my name. How can anyone  
Long bear an epithet like that which they have  
Given me: the Face that Launched a Thousand  
Warships, as though my face were somehow more  
To blame than those warship captains and their crews.  
But they are men. They will not take the blame.

 

2\. A Soldier, Battle Weary, Survives the Siege: Perdicus Speaks

 

I thought I was fighting with people who were themselves  
Fighting for love. I did not see at first how that made  
No sense. I believed in the peace. A good soldier, yes,  
But first a gullible farm boy. Like the others, I saw  
The horse as a talisman, a prize for our long persistence,  
Holding out against the Greeks, even though I myself was

A Greek among Trojans. I never thought I would see, of all  
People, my former betrothed, fighting alongside this  
Warrior Princess. They fought well together, a team.  
This miserable city of death and despair, once breeched,  
Should have fallen. But three Greeks joined the Trojans  
To hold the fort, to get the civilians out. I am proud

To have been one of them, and shamed that I was not  
The one to think to leave the city this way, or be  
He who killed the traitor. I am, they say, a good soldier,  
But I am not at heart a warrior. I had thought I was.  
I reveled in the role, the wine, women, and song  
That marked my status. But seeing her here and now,

So solicitous for my safety, when it is I who should be  
Trying to protect her, my tongue is tied. I tell her  
She cannot tell me what to do anymore, and I  
Believe what I say. And yet, even as I leave Troy far  
Behind, I will be considering what she said here  
And wondering if she has not seen me aright.

 

 

 

 

Like and Yet Unlike: G. and L. Share the Same Thought

 

When someone is as beautiful as she is  
On the outside, you forget how much of the rest  
Is what made you notice her in the first place:  
A strong or delicate hand, noble bearing,  
Experience or innocence, the words she chooses.  
So now to see her opposite herself,  
Warrior/Princess, it’s a little like an earthquake,  
When the ground is not exactly down  
Nor the sky up, but rather over there, where  
The horizon should meet up, but refuses to.  
I am pretty sure I like my version better.

 

 

 

Pressure Points

 

To win a battle, an army throws itself  
Against the enemy's weakest defense;  
A soldier cuts where his foe's armor  
Has an opening for movement: wrist, knee,  
Neck, groin. So too in a negotiation.  
To enter an enemy's stronghold requires  
Misdirection, as the Trojans discovered  
To their dismay. How often have I used  
This ruse, the dancing girl, to make men  
Weak right before I apply the pressure.

Three veils, that's all it takes. Two will do  
In a pinch since most men start undressing me  
Before the music starts. I writhe, undulate,  
Swish my perfumed veils under their noses.  
I am probably the best thing they've smelled  
All year. They finger my breasts in their minds,  
Don't anticipate the dagger hiding there. And when  
I've got them coming and going, too dazed to know  
They're not between my thighs, that's when I strike.

 

 

Losing Nerve

X: But you’re coming back, right? G: Depends on what I learn.

G.  
I can’t expect you to always be there  
For me. A moment of indecision, half  
A moment, could mean both our deaths if I  
Do not act and you have to fight both your foes  
And mine. I thought my fate lay on the road  
With you, back when I thought that travel was  
A game. Maybe with travel companions  
Who aren’t you, it could be. But evil men are  
Drawn to test themselves against you. And I, like  
A little sister tagging along, I just distract  
You from the dangerous work you do,  
Ridding the world of those who would burn it down.

X.  
I couldn’t expect that you would always stay  
With me. At some point you would become  
Bored or weary of the endless moving down  
The road. I thought that you were restless  
Like me, always wandering, your heart on the road  
With mine. I have had travel companions before  
Who were not you, told only tales of plunder  
And siege, the long waiting to exert their will  
Against an unwilling populace. I never want  
You to be Troy, not for me. I never want  
To keep you from the important work you do,  
Showing the world the hope that is its seed.

G.  
I guess I expected that I could become  
Like you: brave and strong, fast to react,  
Unafraid, that through following where you go,  
I could be your equal, maybe even a hero,  
That the road itself could change me.  
I should have known better. A village girl  
Is all I’ll ever be, perhaps. If that is true,  
I need to know, for your sake. I never want  
You to die protecting me. That would be losing  
You twice. I’m going home to work it out.  
Home will make my questions’ answers clear.

X.  
I guess I expected that we could go on like this  
Indefinitely, that I could become like you, light  
Hearted and taking each day as a gift, that  
I could learn to love as you do, without greed  
Or manipulation. But the road has made me  
Something different from what I started as:  
A village girl with thoughts of marriage and home.  
You need to find your way. I never want to force  
You to stay with me; then I would lose you  
For sure. Go home, but oh my heart, when you  
Have found your answers, then return. Return.

G.  
It’s a different way to see my hometown, as strategic problems I need to  
solve with wit and cunning. My neighbors suddenly are my soldiers,  
looking to me for the plan of defense through attack. My sister falls  
asleep on watch, but I am awake, alert, finally fully alive in a way I never  
expected, especially not here, taller, stronger, thinking on my feet,  
knowing the answers before the village elders can even form the  
questions. Half the warlord’s men lie dead. The rest are fleeing.  
Exhilarated, I realize that the road and you have made me, fearless.

X.  
I used to be so at home  
with my aloneness. Birdsong and  
my horses hooves were enough. I was  
whole, complete. I cannot find that  
feeling now anywhere inside me.  
It’s a hungry feeling an emptiness  
of heart. Back then, I longed for  
a feast, but now, I would accept a torn  
bit of bread with overwhelming  
gratitude. If she does not return,  
I shall become Odysseus, forever  
wandering, forever incomplete...

G.  
It is strange how eagerly she hears the tale  
She calls the Defense of Potidaea, like it’s  
Some great battle like the ones she’s fought.  
She tells me I need to start it just the same  
Way I start the ones I write about her: I sing  
Of the Battling Bard of Potidaea, a woman  
Of fortitude and wit. I am pretty sure that  
She is only pulling my leg. And yet, and yet...

 

 

Thanks to Henbane, G. Sees Clearly

 

By all the gods, you are beautiful, a rhapsody  
In leather armor, your mellifluous ebony hair  
A torrent like a mountain stream. I could gaze  
Into your eyes, lapis lazuli, striking like falling stars,  
For an hour, for an afternoon, but it would be like  
Looking upon Aphrodite's likeness, and I would  
End up swooning. Here in this cave I finally see  
You clearly, though you are fuzzy on the edges.  
Your warm hands, as you pick me up from where  
I have fallen in my utter amazement, are strong.  
I have seen you kill and heal with them. Those  
Square white shoulders, your shapely ivory legs,  
How did I never notice them before today? 

 

 

Full Circle

 

Even a year later, I sometimes wake up in a sweat,  
Remembering the terror of that day the slavers came  
To Potidaea, gathered us together at swordpoint, and  
Dragged us out of the village. In my dreams, I am  
Struggling to protect Lila and my friends, but the men  
Are much bigger, too strong, and my punches do  
Nothing against their armor. Sometimes I dream  
That they took me up on my offer, took me instead  
Of the others, that I was sold to some warlord, forced  
To do kitchen work and him. Sometimes I dream  
They took us both and her sobbing is what wakes me.

Always, Xena knows, like she is shadowing me  
In my dream, ready to save me just as she did. Always  
She sings her lament, and my heart slows down.  
She says I will never forget, but someday the memory  
Will be less about blinding terror and more about  
Gratitude for my life regained, and maybe even  
A kind of gift I will be able to give someone else.  
I never understood what she meant before today,  
When we rescued the girls from Laotia, and this Reia  
Who, like me, offered to take her younger sister's place.  
She is filled with shame. Who volunteers to be a slave?

But I understand that thoughtless bravery, the selfless  
Love that sacrifices itself for something it deems more  
Important. Xena told me that was what brought her back  
From some internal precipice on that day, when she was  
So close to giving up, that it was me who saved her, not  
The other way around. She said that trying to leave me  
Behind would have been the biggest mistake, that without  
Me beside her on her long road, she would have slid into  
Despair, or worse, back into her old ways. She says these  
Things with such intensity that I cannot help but believe her,  
And I can begin to see my old terror as the gift it is.

 

 

 

In the Making

 

In this world, we are created and recreated many times,  
First in the ring of destiny at birth, then in our parents' arms,  
Then when the gods take notice of us, or ignore us, or  
Decide to curse us. They say the gods only curse us  
By giving us what we desire. Look at me: I wanted world  
Domination, like this well-armored puppy does. The men  
And women I trained, they also wanted power: wealth,  
Glory, death. You wanted some of that glory that you thought  
You could get by simply living out the adventures with me.

You didn't expect to kill. I think of that irony now in this fight  
With the men in invincible armor, whose swords cut our  
Bladed weapons in half. You with your staff are the war drummer  
Leading our fight, the first one to make a dent, if you will, in their  
Thick helmets. When the assassin aims for the weak points--  
Throat, shoulder, hip, groin--and the rest of us use blunt force,  
Then we turn the tide and they retreat. It troubles you, meeting  
My other protegés. You ask if they were murderers when I met them  
Or if they were more like you, normal, maybe even good. You ask

If you are who you are or what I made you. I think you are  
Ascribing me too much power. I could never have made you evil.  
It just isn't in you, unlike most people, unlike these, who bore  
A seed inside that I watered, weeded and fed. You look at this  
Unlikely team I have assembled, offering them freedom from justice  
For their participation. Cynically, you foresee disaster, and it's true  
That there is always one part of the plan that tends to fail miserably,  
But you have to learn to think on your feet. Plan beta: we act  
As a true team, using our strengths for each other's benefit.

Greek fire, a stairway of daggers up a wall, distraction here,  
Force at a weak point there, and we are in the warlord's fortress:  
Just in time to be captured, with the betrayal of two of our number.  
Instead of team spirit we have now pitted against each other men  
And women, an old, stale story. Glaphyra the slaver thinks you don't  
Know much of the world or of men, but you know much more than she,  
Even now. So when the time for plan gamma came around, the melting  
Of the weapons, the plugging of the furnace, the exploding of that  
Blast shield blew the fortress and all the warlord's soldiers in it:

My little showdown with the warlord slowed us down, but  
In the end, my plans usually pretty much work, and the higher  
The stakes, the more brilliantly they succeed. I think people  
Saw that explosion as far as Athens, and given the damage Ares'  
Army did to Athena's, that will be a good omen. Meanwhile,  
I figured out the answer to your questions about who you are  
And how it happened. You have always been who you are, bard,  
Amazon princess, best friend, lover. The question is more who  
Would I be without you. You say I'd have managed. Just not as well.

 

 

 

 

 

I Am a Woman a Warrior Made of Fire

 

I am a woman a warrior made of fire the white hot fire that burns most hot the dead white look in the eye after life has departed I walk with measured tread across the battlefield I have created from your home this village this city this agora now gory from all my attention

Run, woman! They’re trying to kill us all! Why? I think were succeeding. Stop! Let her live. You old crone. Tell the world what we did here. Let them know what devastation awaits anyone who defies me. Who are you? The Warrior Princess. 

I say this and laugh the joke is on her not crone  
but warrior woman a woman made of water and leather and stone

oh princess you used to want to see that look of fear that I foster among my men the villagers the city folk the other warlords vying for my reputation oh wait I mean yours as we joust my scream is ragged and sharp with rage I am good as good as you you made me what I am I will never forgive you I am reviving your reputation as a wanton killer

and remembering Cirra the way fire climbed the skeletons of homes and shops the way fire climbed the bones of my mother and father and sisters and neighbors and would have climbed my bones but for the guidance of who? 

Hestia beloved of virgins? Ares beloved of warriors? or some other foreign god who saw a way in to our gods feasting hall Mount Olympus where they just assume that they reign supreme

the wind that day a curse from the gods and she saw it as a sign that my village my village was hers to simply lay waste leave behind not just broken but decimated those flames just swept through my town like a wave of death my mother my sister my father I bet she still smiles to remember the carnage

 

 

Ignoring the Call of Vengeance: G. Insists on the Promise

 

You say there were just a handful of survivors, lusting for vengeance  
And that you do not blame them. But I do. We have seen this before,  
And vengeance only reinforces the cycle of violence. You say

That if your mother or Hercules, or even I, suffered such a fate  
You might do just the same. Oh, I beg you, no, don’t.  
If something happens to me, promise me you will not

Become a monster. You want to put me off, as you often do,  
But I insist on an oath from you. You like me as I am.  
I am, I intend to be, a peacemaker. Only love

Interrupts the cycle of hatred, intervenes and changes,  
Only forgiveness. You promise as I ask but then  
Try to tell me to get some sleep, to abandon

My head on your shoulder. But I stay. This, I sense,  
This solid bodily contact, this strange intimacy, is all  
That will remind you, later, should that dark time come,

That you must remember my words, my intensity, my  
Can I call it love? That thing I do that makes me care  
That you never go back to the thing that once you were.

 

 

 

 

Contemplating the Circle

 

You want it? Then come get it. 

it is so cold this metal so different from anything in my life so hot and blazing so reminding me of the one thing I cannot forget although it is clear to me that you have oh you have a new life now so now you are simply good now you suddenly decided you would be good what a strange thing that you think that one single moment defines you rather than the decade that came before

what about me? I have a plan tomorrow her weapon will be found in the oracle’s skull I kiss the round cold circle as though it were her warmth that I was taking from its bronze and steel surface this circumference that has cut lives from throats sunk into chest cavities and all the worshipers and hopefuls their heads covered with white cloth as are yours and mine and hers what does that even mean a kind of purity so that we know our queries will be answered? well, maybe it works for you as you manage not only to queer the pitch of your chakram but also catch it again

the chase so primal we urge our horses on and ride across the sand I have waited for this moment endlessly while you did not even recognize me as a victim as a rival as a second self to you no, no, it is not her fault at all that I dream every night of my mother’s screams coming from my burning home you tell me do you sleep well at night? I can take everything you think I have coming to me but you tell me this have you ever been tried for all of the things you have done? have you ever been handed over to a mob that wanted your blood?

the sight just the sight of you arguing on my behalf amuses me so let me answer your question of what I would do if you let me go you let me go and I will dedicate my life to killing everything you love I am being so honest the idea of your pity is worse than death for me, a monster with unexpected integrity

 

 

 

 

 

G. Considers the Greater and Lesser Good

 

The first time I saw you die, my heart  
Froze. The villagers needed you to be heroic,  
Strong, a savior. I needed you. It was no time  
For dying, running away from your responsibilities.  
Yet you lay beneath the rough blanket, unbreathing,  
Chill, silent. I had no way to become you,  
The savior. Even wearing your armor, wielding  
Your sword, I was a pitiful excuse for a warrior,  
For you. It was all I could do to organize  
A defense while the despair flooded through me,  
The last year of my life playing and replaying,  
The hope, the lessons, the stories by the fire,  
Shared meals, shared memories, all cut short.

That wasn’t even the worst part. When the warriors  
Threw your body down before their warlord  
And your limbs flopped lifeless, powerless,  
I could have wept, but there was no time.  
It seems there is never enough time to feel  
Any of the terrible things we need to feel:  
Anger, betrayal, weakness, the horror of a man  
Trying to take away your brilliance, tear you  
Limb from limb. But then the poison roiling  
Through your veins finally weakened, faded.  
You rose. My heart revived. My anger burned.  
How dare you leave me? How could you  
Abandon me, and our shared life together?  
Forgiveness comes hard to a weeping warrior.

 

 

 

The Maenads

 

Summoned by the Delphic Oracle, we traveled  
At speed, the three of us, to Apollo's grove  
High above the temple where, she wrote, a crazed  
Warlord, devoted to Hestia, was determined to wreck  
The winter sacrifice to Dionysus, the wine,  
The crazed, groping dance that seems to some  
The antithesis of reason, Apollo's realm.

Men who are not priests are prohibited from  
The Dionysian festival, so she sent for me  
And I brought them, figuring that Joxer  
Probably wouldn't count. In fact, I made  
The mistake of sending him on ahead to keep  
Watch, so we could lay our traps, spiked pit,  
Caltrops--all the usual preparations for an attack

By overwhelming numbers. In retrospect, that  
Probably wasn't my smartest strategic decision,  
Although I am quite proud of the small avalanche  
We triggered when the band of fighting men  
Tried to ride uphill. It took them right out.  
It was her idea. She is getting a real knack for this  
Work. When they came back, the survivors,

On foot, we watched that other frenzied dance,  
As the caltrops pierced their boots. They crawled  
Away trailing blood and weeping. The spiked pit  
Took out another pair. In the end, only  
The warlord himself reached the holy orgy,  
And Joxer, of all people, took him out,  
Probably by accident, knowing him.

And that's the only reason Dionysus chose  
To let him live, unblinded, despite the old  
Prohibition. They took his memories of that night,  
Of course. And the only thing that surprised me  
Was that, when they gave him the option, sight or  
Memories, being the man he is, for a moment,  
He actually had to stop and think first.

 

Love in a Time of War: Hippocrates Speaks

Blind hatred leads to this, a state of war  
Between two nations who see themselves  
As relentlessly different. Imagine an endless  
Forest. By night, the trees are black, armored,  
Ranged in combat formation. To breathe is to give  
Away your position. Someone steps. A stick breaks.  
Screams and the thud and slice of swords:  
Slicing bodies. You hope it is your enemy  
You are cutting open, but the guttural cries  
Could be anyone’s, even your own. Maybe  
They are your own. There is too much blood  
In your eyes to even know. Dawn breaks  
You are surrounded and disarmed. Tied.  
Taken. All this for some idea of what the gods want.

And you, proud warrior, you have seen both sides,  
The killing and the healing. You see both  
Armies made up of men and women equally  
Capable of being wounded, killed, rescued.  
You believe in triage, separating the savable  
From those destined, soon, for the Elysian Fields  
Or Tartarus. You are willing to make the call.  
The smell would make anyone gag, but you  
Ignore it, stoic, moving from one wounded  
Soldier to the next, sewing up wounds,  
Binding broken bones, telling us when to give up  
On someone who has also given up. You  
Even invite the baby to be born, kicking  
And screaming his way into this harsh world.

I guess it is easy to choose life or death  
For strangers, whose names you do not know,  
Whose hands you haven’t memorized, whose eyes,  
Closed against the agony, you couldn’t describe  
In your sleep. It’s different when it’s your friend,  
The woman who has sat across the fire from you  
For a year of evenings, who has ridden with you  
In both peace and war. And now you have brought  
Her into this war zone, you have brought her  
To the sword gash in her chest, her gagging breath,  
Her limbs seizing up, her skin so waxy and still:  
Those cannot be allowed. Her blue eyes cannot close  
For good. Although a rule for others, mortality  
Must be denied for her. She cannot leave you.

Anguish steals your reserve and resolve,  
Makes your strong hands shake. You have done  
Everything you can. We tell you to give up, but  
You ignore our looks of embarrassed pity.  
She cannot leave you. You will not allow it.  
Unwilling to be abandoned, you bend down, breathe  
Your own life into her, refusing to let her choose  
To leave. Weeping, you yell at her to stay and fight.  
You pound her chest in a fit of terror no darkened,  
Blood-slicked forest could ever incite. She gasps, alive  
Again. Asclepius had no hand in this. She is herself  
The miracle. Sometimes the strongest medicine is fear  
And love and rage, so admixed to become a potent  
Tincture beyond anything even the gods could provide.


	2. Metamorphosis

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Season Two, some canon divergence

On the Road Alone, X. Explains Herself

 

Sometimes the heat builds up to such a pitch,  
I have to leave you, make up a mission,  
Far away--urgent--must rush--I will  
Be back soon. You say, “Don’t forget me!”  
As if I ever could. That’s why I go.

Only by riding away can I feel the heat  
And weight of you, the one person in the world  
I can’t have. I lie awake by the fire  
Sweating for what I want, the one day  
You turn and catch me looking, and understand.

Far away from you, I have space to imagine  
What it could be like. Maybe your eyes close,  
As you shudder when I run my hand  
Down your arm, your leg. Maybe you breathe  
Against my neck, wordless for a change.

Maybe you press yourself against me,  
Urgent, your cool fingers finding, sharing  
My warmth. Maybe you ask for more, and again,  
And eventually lay your head against my shoulder.  
Far away from you, I allow myself to imagine.

Far away, I can get you out of my system  
For a little while, relieve the pressure of  
My wanting deep in the belly, the knot  
That ties me to you, that no one else can see,  
Not even, or especially, not you.

 

Right Time, Right Place, Right Plan: S. Contrives

 

It doesn’t take a Delphic oracle to recognize that times  
Are hard, with warlords doing their trademark ravening  
All over Greece, Macedonia, Thrace, even Thebes. So  
Your wooden roof has been burned from your stone temple?  
Don’t look at me as an opportunistic businessman—  
(People always make that mistake). Look at me as your  
Savior, the man with the plan! Picture this: games  
That will make Zeus and his Olympic athletes jealous.

That’s all you need, my friend. A chariot race perhaps,  
A race run in armor, a singing contest, to honor Apollo,  
Maybe even a prize for lyre playing, an all-out melee,  
And here’s the trick, instead of vying for the usual  
Athletes, let’s invite the warlords to compete, maybe  
In teams of four, and say that every team has to enter  
Every competition in one configuration or another.  
What do you think? It’ll be a sure-fire hit. And just think

Of the merchandising opportunities! We’ll sell fishcakes  
And selzer to the spectators, maybe even tabards  
And tankards with the team logos on them. We’ll  
Ask Draco, Mezentius, Theodorus, get them to train  
Rather than ravening, get them to wear themselves out  
Rather than burning down Greece. And the fees,  
Both from entrants and spectators, will pay not only for  
Your roof, but also for, how shall we say, your manager?

 

 

S. Convinces the Dream Team

 

A.  
So you say you've already talked to the ladies, and they’re in?  
But wasn’t there a wedding being planned? Not that I  
Was invited, and anyway the bracelet of Clytemnestra  
Is in need of being liberated and sold… Feats of daring  
And dexterity, you say, and a balanced team requires  
Someone to get through an obstacle course with nothing  
But his wit and perhaps a grappling hook? And a winning  
Team needs someone to steal the spectators’ hearts?  
Well, now, this sounds like a job for the King of Thieves…

X.  
You say there’s even a race where someone rides  
A donkey? Oh, I think I know just the man for that…  
Well, if the good thief's in, I’m in. It will be good for us  
To have one last adventure together before she starts  
Her married life in earnest. And with the boys there  
With us, there will be no opportunities for awkward  
Moments, not like we've had all week since she finally  
Made up her mind, and decided on him, not me.

G.  
I saw the hope flash in her eyes the moment he said "team"  
And I knew I could not disappoint her even though  
Perdicus probably won't like it, me going off with her  
Again so soon after we are wed. Perhaps I should put him  
First, but I owe her this, after everything she has taught  
Me, after everything she has given me, all the times  
She saved me, all the times since he asked me, when  
She looked so sad right before her face went blank  
Or she made a joke to distract me from noticing.  
It will be an easier way to let go of the road we shared,  
One last adventure, the two of us and the boys.

 

Alone on Her Wedding Night, I Think of the Past

 

Once upon a time, an innocent village girl  
Left behind her village, parents, sister, even  
Her betrothed, to seek adventure on the open  
Road. Always ready to talk her way onto a farmer’s  
Cart or out of a fight. Talking, stalling for time:  
She has a real knack for using words. It’s as if  
The words come to her, begging to be said  
By her lips, molded to her uses by her tanned  
Hands. If I could be a word, I’d come to her  
To be said, over and over, like a litany  
To Artemis the Huntress or Athena the Wise.

Why are all the best goddesses virgins? What is it  
That men do to take a woman from her truest self?  
Before I stood with her, I braided the garland  
Of white flowers for her to wear. She should have  
Had a laurel wreath, a crown to tell the world  
Of her mastery of words, and the mystery of it:  
How she reaches out her hand to touch  
The stars, caress the waxing moon, and when  
Dawn breaks, a scroll lies next to my pillow.  
Perhaps she will write for him now. I promise you,  
He won’t know enough to appreciate it any more

Than I did. If I had a heart to break, I would cut it  
Out of my chest, leave it to beat its last on some  
Flat rock, garlanded with a discarded wreath  
Of small white flowers, fading as night falls hard.  
It doesn’t take a blinded Cyclops to see where this  
Night is headed. There is a storm on the horizon,  
Purple clouds rolling in with the flash of lightning  
Piercing the repeated booms of thunder. And I,  
I stand in the pelting rain, oblivious, cold,  
Alone again. Once upon a time, foolishly,  
I had thought it would be me.

 

Know Your Enemy, Know Yourself: X. Reflects on C.

 

In the night season, I dream  
memories misremembered,  
death in the form of  
my perfect nemesis, a woman  
born in the fire  
that killed her family. She is  
me. And I did create her  
as she claims, though it was not  
my hand that lit the spark

that tore her world away.  
She revels in her pain. I did that

once, as she does,  
and spread it far  
and wide: if I suffer, so too  
must everyone.  
I will wring out the world  
like a map weeping blood.

I am her now, our minds  
and bodies switched by the gods  
in their infinite  
unfairness. My enemy is me.  
I look in the river and the body  
that I know does not look back.  
She promised once to take away  
everything I loved,  
my friends, family, horse,  
reputation, everything it took me  
so many years to win back.

Now in her body I must race  
against time, again,  
to stop her. Both of us suffer  
from my monumental  
guilt. Like a crashing wave,  
once it starts, there  
is no stopping it.

 

 

The Burdens We Pass On: Two Miles around Delphi

 

X.  
The thing about running half a mile as fast as you can  
Is all you can focus on is the path, your legs pumping,  
Your heart pumping, the wind in your lungs, the baton  
In your hand and your own pain. Letting Callisto die  
In the sandpit was the right thing to do, or so I thought  
At the time. It was anything but quick, not like my legs,  
My thoughts, the worries that flicker through my mind  
As I run, first toward them, but eventually ever toward  
Her. She is back now that he is gone and I hate myself  
For being grateful for his death, for punishing the woman  
Who is to blame for the thing that has given me back  
My heart. I am racing against time against myself  
Against the person I don't want to be and in the distance  
The good thief waves and as I race closer and prepare  
To let go the baton, I wish he would just steal my pain. 

A.  
The first time ever I ran a half mile in earnest I was  
Chasing my brother's killer, but he, on a horse,  
Was faster. I never caught up, but I did find a way  
To catch him out, steal everything he ever owned,  
Sell it for a profit and start the race for the crown of  
The king of thieves I now wear, even though sometimes  
It seems hollow even to me. The only time I feel  
Like I used to when my brother was still alive is  
When I am with these ladies and even this idiot, who is  
Kind of like an annoying little brother. Like northward-  
Facing moss on a tree, he's grown on me. I see him  
In the distance looking happier than I have ever seen  
Him look and then I recall that he will be running  
Toward the woman he loves whom he thinks might now  
Be available again, because he can't see past his own nose.

J.  
It feels good for a change to be running toward a goal  
Rather than running, as I have so often done since  
Childhood, away from something I fear, first my brother,  
Then my own inadequacies, then after meeting these  
Three true friends, my shame. I was happy for the first  
Time in years and then, wham! She marries her childhood  
Friend, has her wedding night with a man who wasn't  
Me. I tried to talk to her best friend about it, but she said  
They deserved their love. Well, what would she know  
About epic love anyway? I am gasping for breath and  
My legs are heavy as iron, but I am picturing her there  
Waiting for me, waiting to receive from me this baton,  
Waiting to hold it in her hands and consummate this race,  
I mean finish it, and maybe, by running so much faster  
Than all those other warlords, win the laurel crown.

G.  
Endlessly standing at the last half-mile marker before the city gate:  
Just me and nine warlords, big, armored, greasy men I would not  
Trust as far as Joxer could throw them, my thoughts are a vicious  
Cycle of grief and guilt. Loving him was strange and wonderful,  
Painful and surprising, but mostly over all too soon. Compared to all  
The things I felt that night, today I feel nothing, as if even  
My hands awaiting the baton were nerveless, dead, my heart  
Either far away or long ago or both, but not here, not now.  
Joxer is in front of me before I see him and the baton in my hand  
So I run, I run like I run to kill Callisto, as I run into battle with  
The Amazons, as I feel I have been running all my life, to meet  
Up with the fate I foresaw for myself years ago. How could I know  
My dream would leave him dead? How foresee, as I run the way  
I have never run before, that pain could make me fast, make me win?  
It means nothing to me but perhaps it will make them happy.

 

 

J. Wins His Race

 

The nine warlords and their teams having flat refused  
To enter a team member in the donkey race, so enamored  
Of their dignity were they, that I ran the course alone,  
And when I say "ran" what I mean is dragged that donkey  
By the rope, feeding him carrots, slapping his rump,  
Talking to him in my most persuasive terms--because  
I can be very persuasive. Halfway around the course,  
He sat down and refused to move. Having tried everything  
I could think of, I decided to make the best of a bad  
Situation. If I couldn't convince the donkey to go,  
I could take a rest myself and entertain myself  
By singing my theme song: "Joxer, the Mighty."

So inspiring were the words and so jaunty the tune,  
That the donkey, rolling his eyes in pleasure, stood up  
Quickly and started to run. Fortunately, I was still hanging  
Onto the rope, and he dragged me the whole rest of the way.  
I kept singing to keep him sufficiently inspired, which  
Isn't easy when you are being dragged over rocky ground,  
Through an agora and at least one fish stall. But I have  
Plenty of experience with fraught situations. That is  
The gift one gets growing up with a future assassin:  
After you've been thoroughly mocked, you are immune.  
The warlords laughed in my face at the finish, said, "Have you  
No shame?" I looked over at my friends, said, "Actually? No."

 

G.’s Hymn to Apollo

 

When Apollo’s gleaming chariot sinks behind the western sea,  
Plunging the world in darkness, terrifying in its completeness,  
Men and women hide in sleep to seek Apollo’s counsel.  
Sometimes the dead walk again in our dreams, warmed  
By the remembered sun, almost touchable, almost  
Real. Sometimes in our sleep we are touched by the rays  
Of their love. And sometimes, without Phoebus’s light  
To guide our straying steps, we rather flee into the sea,  
Wine-dark from storm wrack and the blood of battles.

Apollo, giver of dreams, what cruelty or wisdom guides you  
As you choose which dreams to give the sleepers, which  
Memories to pluck from their hearts and reveal to their  
Closed eyes? In sleep we become the spectators at a drama  
Written and composed by the god of sunlight and reason,  
But the drama is dark, irrational, ferocious in its grip  
Upon our limbs. The players wear the masks of our friends,  
Our selves. We watch ourselves play the murderer  
Or condemn her, hunt her down, take vengeance on her,

Bury our dead and offer the sacrifice for them.  
Then when we have seen the tragedy through, somewhere  
Behind the eastern sea, you gather your fiery steeds  
From the flaming fields of Helios where they graze  
Throughout the night. You harness them to your bright  
Chariot, gather the reins and urge them up into that  
Slowly lightening sky, scattering our tragic dreams  
As you also scatter the long darkness. Dawn breaks.  
Your chariot flies overhead and we wake to light.

 

 

Free for All, Costly for Some: A. Observes the Melee

 

When the businessman said that the all-out melee event  
Would be fought with no blades, just fists, sticks, and  
Whatever "weapons of opportunity" presented themselves  
I pictured the warrior princess fighting with fish. I did not  
Expect this. It started in the field outside Delphi, ten  
Teams of warlords and their minions, and us. She started  
It, of course, with a grin and her war cry, and I of course  
Went along for the ride, kicking, punching, flipping  
Minions over my shoulder, looking out for the idiot  
Who did occasionally land a punch, but more often  
Struck the other warriors accidentally, or tripped them  
When they fell over his body the times he was felled.

I did not expect to see the fierce delight of battle  
In the innocent blue eyes of the irritating blonde.  
She swung the stick like a thing possessed, the twirling  
Center of a maelstrom made up of leather-clad men  
With fists like hamhocks. She barely noticed them,  
Rolling like a flood between the pair she brained  
With her staff parallel as they ran at her--two, as one  
Might say, for the price of one. And in her recoil  
She elbowed the fellow coming up to grab her and  
He ducked, rolled and got kicked in the head by  
Yours truly. Meanwhile the princess was doing  
Her signature backflips, double kicks and the war cry.

Vergillius came at her with both fists blazing, but  
By that time the melee had moved into the agora,  
So she sent him head over heals into a fruit stall:  
Warlord: 0, Figs & Grapes: 1. Gagnon followed,  
Hit over the head with a flagon of olive oil. She really  
Does love innovating. Inspired by her example,  
I grabbed an enormous bunch of red grapes, ate  
A few to test the goods, then flailed them in the face  
Of Theodorus, who is not going to forgive me soon  
For that little humiliation. Also, his beard is now  
Purple. Mezentius, the wily bastard, broke the legs  
Off a wine stall table, and came at the ladies, both

 

Sticks twirling madly, but the princess knocked his feet  
Out from under him, and the sidekick gave him  
A one-two to both temples with opposite ends her  
Stick, then whirled around to give a thug twice  
Her size a single shot to the throat and he went down  
Gagging. After that, the princess hung back and just  
Watched the little one work, so focused, so angry,  
Grinning with a lust I have only ever seen on the face  
Of one woman, the one watching with a mix of fear  
And attraction, worry and understanding. Grief  
Takes us all differently, I guess, just as love does.  
Then the idiot was working backwards, blocking

And weaving and not getting a single punch in, and  
I could see what was coming, but just as the sidekick  
Was whirling around to give him a concussion,  
The princess dragged him away, grabbed the stick,  
Ran up the side of the tavern and came down on two  
Fallen warlords, one boot on each chest. I heard  
Bones crack, and then she was up and away again,  
With another backflip. The sidekick screamed in rage,  
But she's smarter than she looks. She didn't go after  
Her staff, she went after a pair of thugs who looked like  
Bulldog twins, rolled between them so that they aimed  
At her and hit each other: total knockout. Twins: 00,

Sidekick: 2. Dodging and weaving, she forced the warriors  
To knock each other out in their attempt to even touch  
Her much faster, lithe figure. She's learned a lot in the last  
Year or two, I'll grant her that. Watching her take on  
Lycanus and his team: cracked ribs, cracked heads,  
Knocking them off their feet with an economy of motion  
That was beautiful to watch. Women are often beautiful  
When they're angry. I have, as the King of Thieves, stolen  
Many hearts, and often had to escape from an angry woman  
Or her less beautiful but equally angry husband, so I know.  
I also recognized the searing pain of the newly created  
Eunuch as the little one gave him a sharp kick to the codpiece.

I closed with Draco, that wall of a man, big mistake on my part.  
He sent me flying into gaggle full of young women fingering  
Material at a clothing stall, so yes, that could have gone worse.  
A few stolen kisses later, and I am back to back with the idiot  
Working our way back to the sidekick who could never  
Take on that dragon of a man, the princess's ex-lieutenant.  
But just as you might expect, when the chips are down  
And a final dramatic engagement is about to ensue, and  
You can almost hear a theme song playing in the background,  
She appears, ululating and grinning, sword in one hand, staff  
Flying through the air toward us, and the sidekick catches it  
As though they've been playing these roles all their lives.

Poor Draco. The man didn't stand a chance. We're left standing,  
Just the four of us left, between the wine stall and the brothel,  
And would you believe it the ladies of negotiable affection  
Are cheering for the idiot who, to give him his due, manages  
An uncharacteristically graceful bow, for once a true hero.  
The businessman and the Delphic priests and the Oracle  
Are hurrying down to award us our laurels. The ladies grin  
At each other, though I can tell the princess still worries.  
But I know they will be all right. Lives and loves get stolen  
Every day, as I should know. I smooth my mustache, accept  
My green crown. The next time I see them, I know, it will be  
As if this little rift never happened; they'll be stronger for it.

 

 

Behind the Curtain at the Amphitheater

 

X.  
Now we wait for broken-fingered Mezentius  
To finish playing his lyre: painful for everyone.  
For a moment I wonder what idiot planned  
The lyre contest after the melee. Then I recall  
How that businessman could out-strategize the best  
Of generals, and often has. He meant for us to win  
From the beginning. We are--I am--the only one  
All those warlords and their minions would accept  
As their superior, the victor they will not dare  
To demand a rematch from. Lucky Greece,  
That she has such a protector as he is.

I look over at my accompanist, clutching  
Apollo's lyre and swallowing nervously.  
The first five rows of spectators are priests,  
Warlords, and the women from the brothel,  
But he doesn't see a single one of them. No,  
Front and center are our teammates, so he keeps  
The good thief firmly locked in his sight, he is so  
Terrified to look into her dead eyes. Yes, I know  
The feeling, and somewhere deep in his lion's heart,  
He knows I know. We are one in our overflowing  
Love, grief, desperate desire to gather together  
The shattered pieces of her heart and give them back.

J.  
The warrior princess and I only ever agree on a single thing  
Beyond her warrior prowess and my lion's heart: if we can  
Do anything to serve Gabrielle, that thing will be done  
Speedily and well and without a moment's hesitation.

So upon hearing the hard hymn to Apollo that she wrote,  
Our eyes met, the thought shared, but then immediately  
We had to prepare for the melee. There was no time.  
And I could not fight as well as I normally would

In my effort to protect my hands for this performance.  
Oddly, no one noticed. Half-hearted applause breaks out  
For the angry warlord. Apollo's lyre trembles  
In my hands, as though it is anticipating our music.

 

J. Plays His Heart Out While X., Moved, Sings

 

High upon the snowy peak of Mount Parnassus  
Apollo's sky is bright, the air is thin  
And filled to overflowing with a song that passes  
For the song of birds, a ripe melodious din.  
But the music comes from the temple, gold long keeping,  
And he and I and every bird a thief  
To steal from the muses, for to end your weeping,  
A richly gleaming song that will heal your grief.

The scudding drifts over the perfect blue Aegean  
Belie the rifts of the past, its furious roar,  
From which tumult, peace returns to the sea when  
Your ship eventually reaches the rocky shore.  
And he and I, like landed sailors still reeling,  
We struggle to retell a story wrongly told  
And steal from the sirens a sacred fire annealing  
And a whitely burning song that will heal your soul.

On the broad green flank of Poseidon's holy hill  
In a vision beheld by youthful fearless eyes  
You saw your gift unfold and it unfolds still  
Beyond war, death, and all destinies that arise.  
Poseidon ordains with a blast, his conch loud ringing:  
Take up your work, your life a ripening pearl,  
A gift from the gods, and then you will be singing  
An emerald tidal song that will heal the world.

 

 

Behind the Curtain at the Amphitheater

 

X.  
Now we wait for broken-fingered Mezentius  
To finish playing his lyre: painful for everyone.  
For a moment I wonder what idiot planned  
The lyre contest after the melee. Then I recall  
How that businessman could out-strategize the best  
Of generals, and often has. He meant for us to win  
From the beginning. We are--I am--the only one  
All those warlords and their minions would accept  
As their superior, the victor they will not dare  
To demand a rematch from. Lucky Greece,  
That she has such a protector as he is.

I look over at my accompanist, clutching  
Apollo's lyre and swallowing nervously.  
The first five rows of spectators are priests,  
Warlords, and the women from the brothel,  
But he doesn't see a single one of them. No,  
Front and center are our teammates, so he keeps  
The good thief firmly locked in his sight, he is so  
Terrified to look into her dead eyes. Yes, I know  
The feeling, and somewhere deep in his lion's heart,  
He knows I know. We are one in our overflowing  
Love, grief, desperate desire to gather together  
The shattered pieces of her heart and give them back.

J.  
The warrior princess and I only ever agree on a single thing  
Beyond her warrior prowess and my lion's heart: if we can  
Do anything to serve Gabrielle, that thing will be done  
Speedily and well and without a moment's hesitation.

So upon hearing the hard hymn to Apollo that she wrote,  
Our eyes met, the thought shared, but then immediately  
We had to prepare for the melee. There was no time.  
And I could not fight as well as I normally would

In my effort to protect my hands for this performance.  
Oddly, no one noticed. Half-hearted applause breaks out  
For the angry warlord. Apollo's lyre trembles  
In my hands, as though it is anticipating our music.

 

J. Plays His Heart Out While X., Moved, Sings

 

High upon the snowy peak of Mount Parnassus  
Apollo's sky is bright, the air is thin  
And filled to overflowing with a song that passes  
For the song of birds, a ripe melodious din.  
But the music comes from the temple, gold long keeping,  
And he and I and every bird a thief  
To steal from the muses, for to end your weeping,  
A richly gleaming song that will heal your grief.

The scudding drifts over the perfect blue Aegean  
Belie the rifts of the past, its furious roar,  
From which tumult, peace returns to the sea when  
Your ship eventually reaches the rocky shore.  
And he and I, like landed sailors still reeling,  
We struggle to retell a story wrongly told  
And steal from the sirens a sacred fire annealing  
And a whitely burning song that will heal your soul.

On the broad green flank of Poseidon's holy hill  
In a vision beheld by youthful fearless eyes  
You saw your gift unfold and it unfolds still  
Beyond war, death, and all destinies that arise.  
Poseidon ordains with a blast, his conch loud ringing:  
Take up your work, your life a ripening pearl,  
A gift from the gods, and then you will be singing  
An emerald tidal song that will heal the world.

 

Thy Laurel Well-Deservèd

"Come walk with the Laconian drinking cup  
along the benches of the swift shift  
and drain the drink from the hollow jars,  
pour out the red wine down  
To the very dregs. We will not be able  
To remain sober on this watch." --Archilochus 

J.  
Sitting in the Oracle's Flagon, here down the road from the temple,  
We accept cup after cup of rough red wine: tribute from our  
Competitors (the ones not lying in Apollo's hospice moaning)  
And well deserved it is! We showed our worth. Apollo and even Ares  
Smiled on us, though the warrior princess mentioned that  
She thought Athena had more to do with it. Well, sacrifices all round,  
I say! It's important to give thanks to the gods when things  
Go unexpectedly well, as often happens in my life. My piety  
Guarantees my mightiness is not cut off simply when  
Ordinary people expect ordinary outcomes in this, my epic life.

S.  
Sacrifices all round? He may be right. The good thief and I  
Had already planned to make an offering to Hermes,  
God of commerce, theft and getting away with the goods.  
He fills my goblet, toasts, "The plan!" The ladies grin--  
Both of them, for a change. We are all about the plan,  
We five, the tricky challenge of figuring out the strategy,  
Which pebble needs to be pushed with the least force  
Possible to get the mountain moving. We have all watched  
Each other work. We've learned much from each other's petty  
Larcenies, grand schemes, and desperate plans for defense.

G.  
Watching these battered warlords pour the wine out,  
Lift their goblets not just to her or them but me? I am  
Amazed, dazed, tipping on my bench. I feel a little looser  
As though the talons that held me up above the chasm  
Have dropped me back to earth and I can breathe,  
Once again, safely. They watch me, I now notice,  
Cautiously, but I think the worst is over. Artemis and  
Athena be praised, I think, but also, these my friends--  
My dexterous, strong, melodious, loyal friends!--who took  
A plan for saving our beloved Greece, saving me.

X.  
Since I rarely drink much wine, I never get maudlin  
In my cups, but looking around this tavern now, after  
Everything we've been through together, both over  
The years and today, I find myself speechlessly grateful  
and then finding my wine tastes suddenly salty...

A.  
Well, I never thought I would witness that, the warrior  
Princess misty-eyed as she surveys the roaring tavern.  
She thanks me with broken words, plants a big wet kiss  
On my cheek and then on the businessman's, as we sit  
To her left and right. Joxer leans in. You'd think he'd have  
Learned my now. Gabrielle squeezes his shoulder. He is  
Content. He'll probably drink us all under this table.  
The minions congratulate me on the laurel crowns I "won"  
And I squirm. All this honest work will ruin my reputation.  
I'll have to go soon, get back to thieving. Well, maybe tomorrow.

 

 

Sit Ludos Incipe: Let the Games Begin

 

If you think fighting with a baby on your arm is a challenge,  
Try fighting with toys. Marbles make good caltrops, and lead  
More to head and back injuries than bleeding feet, and on  
Solstice night, we would really rather not see blood. Suction  
Cup arrows also have a place in distracting your enemy,  
And star shaped ornaments can be thrown with great effect.

An attractive young woman with a hula hoop, swaying hips,  
A little skin showing, what kind of soldier can keep his  
Attention on the fight in the face of that? And chestnuts in  
Stockings can be used in the place of double swords. Bells  
Can turn the most mundane of bludgeoning into a perfect  
Little jingle. A line of miniature catapults? Add mashed

Potatoes and you have just blinded your foes. And never,  
Ever discount the incredible power, and the symbolic impact,  
Of feather stuffed pillows, on your enemy. In the snow that  
Falls upon their heads and gets stuck in the crevices of  
Their chainmail is your victory. After all, who said that  
Battle, by definition, has to be boring, grim, or bloody?  
With a little imagination, your battles can be fun!

 

 

The Problem of Destiny

 

Normally, painted savages barely slow  
Her down, but a whole tree acting as  
A primitive battering ram? That was too much  
Even for her to shrug off. Before she lost  
Consciousness, she insisted I bear her  
To the far Mount Nestus, where she, long ago  
Once found a portion of healing for a long  
Dark pain, when Caesar betrayed her in the worst  
Of ways, rousing her hopes, doing the dance  
Of seduction and bloody death, tying her  
To a cross like less than a common  
Criminal, to suffocate, struggling to breathe,  
Legs broken, spirit broken, only rescued  
By the most unlikely of allies, the ex-slave  
She took in. I am also the most unlikely  
Of rescuers, yet she trusted me with this  
Task, to bear her north on a makeshift  
Litter, up the mountain, through snow and ice  
Only to find that nothing could be done.

This is the second time you’ve died now and the slow  
Recognition that I am exactly as alone as  
I once felt in my village is just too much  
To bear. We shared a journey, a friendship, now lost.  
Even my sister saw that I needed to leave her  
To travel with you. A year and a half! It seems long ago.  
Now with just Argo and your casket, I feel the long  
Road wearying me. The endless silence is the worst.  
I vacillate between anger and guilt, an ugly dance  
If only I could tell you everything, I would tell you  
How empty my life was before you, mundane, common,  
As though village life was crucifixion, a fight to breathe.  
I never properly thanked you for your rescue  
Both from village life and the life of the slave.  
Now it seems my destiny is to be the unlikely  
Queen of the Amazons. I was not born for this  
And now I need a new path for my life, makeshift  
As it must now be, my heart so full of ice.  
As you would, I will do what must be done.

 

Food of the Gods

If a mouthful of ambrosia can bestow  
On a mortal godlike powers, endless life  
And strength, surely a crumb of it can restore  
Life to a body recently dead. This was her plan,  
One I nearly wrecked due to my blind grief.

At the foot of Mount Nestus, I found a woodcarver  
Who took one look at her, and my tear-stained face,  
Turned and took down a well-seasoned board,  
“Mahogany, I think,” he murmured, let me lay  
Her out on his workbench to measure her.  
I watched him carve the designs from her gauntlets  
And breastplate into the wood of her final bed.  
Her horse refused to eat, and nor could I. I could  
Barely form a coherent thought past my loss.  
At moments like this, we take hold of one thing,

A focus like a cliff amidst the roaring waves:  
I knew that I had to bring her back to her  
Hometown, to share her brother’s tomb. But word  
Spreads fast. Marauders dogged my journey.  
It was good, in a way. I took out my anger on them,  
Left quite a few bloodied heads and broken bones  
Of disappointed bandits in my wake. It was only  
When I reached more friendly climes that I broke  
Down, admitted I had taken on a task I could not  
Fulfill, not alone, not without her. Saying farewell

And consigning her body to the flames, I nearly  
Lost everything, set alight my future. But the good  
Thief stole it back, her body, the rest of my life.  
Somehow her soul had found him, commandeered  
His limbs to obey her commands, to find me  
Find her body, reunite them. That was the plan.  
But heroic plans rarely follow a neat path.  
One power-hungry, crazed Amazon and her followers  
Later, and there I am climbing vines to get to  
The ambrosia, and she is inside me fighting

For her life— It amazes me. How close we come,  
Over and over, to reaching the end of our  
Mortality, only to snatch life back at the last second.  
I see now it’s the journey that is the gift: in a way,  
Perhaps I too have tasted the ambrosia.

 

 

My Less Than Perfect Scheme: The Thief Complains

 

Oh, for the love of Zeus! From the smoking pyre  
Where you showed the Amazons that you were  
Inside me, even though most refused to believe:  
I have first-degree burns on my hands, I’ll have you know  
And I don’t appreciate your taking over

And kissing her like that. Well, it wasn’t bad,  
And she does have a cute-- Well, anyway, let’s just find  
That ambrosia and get it over with. I may be  
The King of Thieves, but stealing kisses that  
I’m not allowed to enjoy was never part of the deal.

 

The Trojan Horse in the Room

 

She can’t decipher just how much I know,  
Which of her thoughts and memories I observed  
When her soul was inside my body, which desires.

That is the Trojan horse in the room at our  
Campfire tonight. Having left the Amazons behind,  
We are finally alone again. She is jumpy

Like a hare. I mention the Amazons. She  
Changes the subject. I tease her about sharing  
Two bodies in one day, one male, one mine:

She goes to rub down her horse. I try to ask  
Her straight out what is wrong. She claims she is  
Just out of sorts from being dead so long.

I can use that, I think. I say she must be stiff  
From all that lying still in her casket.  
I offer to rub her shoulders. Her eyes flash fear,

But she grunts, “Yeah, sure.” Her skin is warm  
Under my hands, unlike when I was cleaning  
Her corpse for the casket. I tell her so.

I tell her with my inexperienced hands  
That Perdicus was a mistake, that I never meant  
To hurt her. I can’t tell if she understands.

Her muscles are so tense. I never thought  
I’d see fear in those ice blue eyes, and not  
Especially looking at me. I start to braid

Her silky long black hair, talking constantly  
To her stiff back, telling how the man  
Who carved her casket refused my money,

Saying she had saved his people more than once.  
I describe the loving detail as he carved,  
His hands confident on his tools as hers

On her sword. I wish my hands too were  
Confident. I can’t let her see that I am  
Shaking on the inside. It’s like battle.

I keep my terror down, as in a wine skin,  
Safe until the fighting ends and I can  
Pour it out. It is even more important

Here, tonight, touching her by the fire,  
Welcoming her soul back to her body, telling  
Her that her soul is welcome to mine.

I wish that she would cry, or say a word  
To hint at what she is thinking. You’d think  
I’d be used to these deep silences by now.

Finally, at a loss for words, I start to sing  
As best I can the lament she always  
Offers at funeral pyres, heartbreaking

Even when I sing it. She trembles under  
My hands, turns and sobs on my chest,  
Her body torn by emotion as it was torn

By her enemies. I fall silent, rocking her until  
At last the torrent ends. Still saying nothing,  
She removes herself from my embrace and goes

To lie down on the other side of the fire. I think  
She didn’t hear what I was trying to say,  
But maybe this was better for both of us

To mourn together what we, briefly, lost:  
Her life, my life, the something we might make  
From tears and campfires, the gifts of our long road.

 

Shyly, X. Tries Her Hand at Poetry the Morning After

 

Four hundred nights I must have watched you sleep,  
The dying fire catching the gold in your hair.  
Your sweet breath rose and fell and rose again  
With the rhythm of your dreams I was not in.  
I did not see you clearly, not at first.  
Experience makes innocence seem weak.  
Not until you fought beside me did I see  
That you had steel in you and your own light.

You were a secret I felt I had to keep.  
I could not ever let you catch me stare  
When you, eager, scratched the parchment with your pen  
Or dutifully cut our dinner, gill from fin.  
But it was the long spring nights that were the worst,  
As I lay by the fire, cold and bleak,  
Knowing my desire could never be  
More than a whispered dream of warm delight.

I could not know how time would make you weep.  
The violence of my life you chose to share  
Would take your light and heart and try to rend  
Them apart, a battle you could not win.  
Your pain, my fault; because of my past, cursed.  
What changed it all was tragedy. We are Greeks.  
We never take life easy. You and he  
Married, deflowered, widowed: one day, one night.

The poets say that what we sow, we reap.  
I had to make it right. I could not bear  
To see you in such pain, my more than friend.  
My vengeance had little glory, was messy, thin,  
A deed I had to do, although perverse.  
And after, it was hard for us to speak  
Of any of it. The silence between you and me  
Crashed through the trees behind us like a kite.

It took a few more months for you to steep  
In your grief, to face the morning air  
Without mourning his reaching of life’s end,  
His power over you and its long romance.  
You threw large stones into the watercourse.  
You say you did not dream. Tears on your cheek  
Kept my hand from touching your knee  
To “comfort,” a self-deception I had to fight.

Then, one evening I heard you moaning in your sleep,  
Crying out my name, demanding more!  
You were tearing at your clothes and then  
Reaching for me. I felt my whole world spin.  
I touched your face. I thought my heart would burst  
As your eyes flew open, blushing that I could see  
All of you now seeing all of me  
Finally! At last! And then, all night...

 

 

G. Worries that the Silence Has Returned

 

Ever since the Greek fire we made our first  
Night, she has been cautious: affectionate,  
But quiet, distant, taking on every mission  
Offered by every king and peasant, keeping us  
Too busy and exhausted to talk. Even on the rare  
Night between, there stays between us  
The crackle of the campfire, a pale, quiet  
Reminder to me of our bright joy.

If I didn’t know better, I’d think fear  
Was the culprit. As the bard wrote, “She fears  
Neither man nor beast!” Of course, when I  
Wrote that, it didn’t occur to me to add  
“Nor woman nor her own timid heart.” Pity.  
Writing things down helps change the world. 

I know she fears to hurt me. The look she gets  
The split second after staring at me is the one  
I call Grim Warrior Woman, steely in her  
Self-control, but right before that I see  
The soft eyes of a deer, poised on a green  
Hilltop, ready for flight. Perhaps, from her  
Experience she fears, and fears for us, both.

 

Love and the Epic Hero: Two Perspectives 

(with thanks to Alfred Lord Tennyson)

Yeah, but what it takes to cross the great divide  
Seems more than all the courage I can muster up inside  
But we get to have some answers when we reach the other side  
The prize is always worth the rocky ride. –Emily Saliers

G.  
I guess it’s hard to love an epic hero.  
She takes herself so seriously, as she must.  
Take this day as an example: two towns need her  
Services: one menaced by an evil giant, the other  
By a ravening warlord seeking land and power,  
Reputation: all the things she sought long ago.  
Where I would weigh the pros and cons,  
She simply flips a dinar. At first I think she is choosing  
One town over the other, denying her services  
To the losing town and letting its people suffer.  
I should know better. She intends to save them both,  
And in the most elegant, efficient way, so that  
One town’s problem solves the other. For me,  
The bigger problem is this pair of peasants, who know  
Her reputation (from my scrolls of all things)  
And idolize her. Well, how could they do less?  
She always tells me I exaggerate her deeds,  
But from where I stand I simply tell the truth  
Of what I see, one powerful woman saving  
Small portions of the known world, over and over  
Again. In the midst of these labors, I only attempt  
To do justice to both those saved and her, their savior.

X.  
She calls me an epic hero. I suppose she is right.  
I have certainly had my share of the requisite pain,  
Both dealt and received, and she also has been on both  
Ends of that in the short time she’s traveled with me.  
Take this day as an example. I wake to a fight,  
As all too often happens, and in my attempt  
To liven things up, I use her frying pan instead  
Of my sword. It is harder to kill with a frying pan  
And I do get tired of the killing. You would think  
She’d understand that, but instead, she takes it  
Personally. I mean, take this pair of peasants,  
One who wants to have me and one to be me.  
She shows them so much patience because  
She has had both thoughts at one time or another.  
I wish I knew which one she is thinking now,  
But I don’t have time to ask her. Timing is  
Everything when I am trying to save the world, again  
And again, even if only these small portions of it.

G.  
You don’t think when you start that there will be  
Pain. You focus on the adventure: the road rather  
Than any single destination, any battle or  
Kidnapped innocent, the road dust and fish guts  
Rather than poison or blood. Maybe if we knew  
That we were entering an epic, our courage  
Would fail us, Odysseus and Achilles would choose  
To stay home and let others do their tasks,  
Hercules would avoid his labors. Instead, we go.  
She is compelled to bring some order to  
This chaotic world, and I am compelled, beyond  
My better judgment, to travel with her, to live  
That “life piled on life” Odysseus described.  
We cannot help it. We are drawn into the epic  
As though the poets made our choices. But I am a poet  
And I know how the story tells the writer  
What it needs to be. I am a mere compass,  
But she and her tasks are true North.

X.  
I know she never anticipated that there would be  
Pain. She expected glory, battles won and joyous  
Adulation. She expected our story to be the one  
She has heard before, Odysseus returning home,  
Not Penelope unweaving her tapestry over and  
Over again. Women aren’t supposed to have their own  
Epic adventures. I’ve spent the better part  
Of ten years learning how to do it right and not  
Get killed again, and more recently, not get her  
Killed. She says I have a “heroic heart” but  
She is the courageous one, strong-willed, the one  
Who decides on what she stands for and then stands,  
Solid and unassailable, not like I was,  
Moved by the lightest of zephyrs. If it is true  
That I strive, seek, find and refuse to yield  
It is because she is North to my wandering compass.

G.  
How can an ordinary person like me love  
An epic hero? These words I write seem so small  
An offering compared to the enormous  
Gratitude I feel. Before meeting her I lived  
A life constrained by convention, small pains,  
Small joys, a far smaller self. Now I help move  
Earth and heaven, and strive with gods.  
What kind of ordinary person ever receives  
Such gifts? She talks about the pain I have endured  
As if it were a problem rather than merely  
A price I pay for a debt I cannot repay.  
Of course it hurts. That is how the gods  
Keep us mortal. I would not exchange it  
For any treasure; it colors the words I choose,  
And the words are the only way I know  
To measure the grandeur of her epic life.

X.  
The only thing that is epic about me is my guilt  
From back when I was the villain of the piece. Faced  
With her enormous heart, I feel small and awed.  
Moving earth and heaven is the easy part. Learning  
To love with generosity? That is going to take me  
Years. That is the heroic deed, the nearly  
Impossible labor. I watch her and learn. I read  
Her scrolls and feel a tremendous debt  
Of gratitude for how she has changed my story. 

G.  
Am I selfish to want her attention all on me  
When she is busy trying to save lives and land?  
Am I too small to be the one to love her  
And be loved in return? There will never be  
A perfect moment, or at least, no more than  
A moment to say the things I feel, to show her  
How strongly I feel them. She still thinks  
It was an anomaly, the night I begged  
Her to take me, a lack of confidence rather than  
A tremendous act of courage on my part.  
And every time since we have had a chance  
To bathe together and I have “lost the soap,”  
She is still convinced I am looking for soap  
And not her attention, her touch. But for me,  
The talker, the storyteller, the persuader,  
The singer of songs, for me to be lost for words  
Is such unfamiliar territory. I long for a map,  
Even if much of it is blank and claiming  
“Here be dragons.” At least then I would have  
A chance to navigate this strange terrain. 

X.  
I struggle to contain my own selfish  
Desires. The world needs saving and I have  
So much evil to make up for. I should not  
Want her as I do. It is not fair to her.  
She says Perdicus was the mistake, but I think  
The mistake is me, with all the deaths I’ve caused,  
The ocean of blood I have spilled, the men  
I have manipulated for my own ends:  
Power, a feeling of control in a world that seems  
So very uncontrollable. She cannot know,  
With her pure heart, the avarice I feel  
When I look at her and think, even for a moment,  
That she could ever be mine. I have to steel  
Myself any time her hand strays across my skin.  
This is the territory of dragons. I dare not  
Treat it instead as some kind of treasure map.

 

Full Circle

 

Even a year later, I sometimes wake up in a sweat,  
Remembering the terror of that day the slavers came  
To Potidaea, gathered us together at swordpoint, and  
Dragged us out of the village. In my dreams, I am  
Struggling to protect Lila and my friends, but the men  
Are much bigger, too strong, and my punches do  
Nothing against their armor. Sometimes I dream  
That they took me up on my offer, took me instead  
Of the others, that I was sold to some warlord, forced  
To do kitchen work and him. Sometimes I dream  
They took us both and her sobbing is what wakes me.

Always, Xena knows, like she is shadowing me  
In my dream, ready to save me just as she did. Always  
She sings her lament, and my heart slows down.  
She says I will never forget, but someday the memory  
Will be less about blinding terror and more about  
Gratitude for my life regained, and maybe even  
A kind of gift I will be able to give someone else.  
I never understood what she meant before today,  
When we rescued the girls from Laotia, and this Reia  
Who, like me, offered to take her younger sister's place.  
She is filled with shame. Who volunteers to be a slave?

But I understand that thoughtless bravery, the selfless  
Love that sacrifices itself for something it deems more  
Important. Xena told me that was what brought her back  
From some internal precipice on that day, when she was  
So close to giving up, that it was me who saved her, not  
The other way around. She said that trying to leave me  
Behind would have been the biggest mistake, that without  
Me beside her on her long road, she would have slid into  
Despair, or worse, back into her old ways. She says these  
Things with such intensity that I cannot help but believe her,  
And I can begin to see my old terror as the gift it is.

 

In the Making

 

In this world, we are created and recreated many times,  
First in the ring of destiny at birth, then in our parents' arms,  
Then when the gods take notice of us, or ignore us, or  
Decide to curse us. They say the gods only curse us  
By giving us what we desire. Look at me: I wanted world  
Domination, like this well-armored puppy does. The men  
And women I trained, they also wanted power: wealth,  
Glory, death. You wanted some of that glory that you thought  
You could get by simply living out the adventures with me.

You didn't expect to kill. I think of that irony now in this fight  
With the men in invincible armor, whose swords cut our  
Bladed weapons in half. You with your staff are the war drummer  
Leading our fight, the first one to make a dent, if you will, in their  
Thick helmets. When the assassin aims for the weak points--  
Throat, shoulder, hip, groin--and the rest of us use blunt force,  
Then we turn the tide and they retreat. It troubles you, meeting  
My other protegés. You ask if they were murderers when I met them  
Or if they were more like you, normal, maybe even good. You ask

If you are who you are or what I made you. I think you are  
Ascribing me too much power. I could never have made you evil.  
It just isn't in you, unlike most people, unlike these, who bore  
A seed inside that I watered, weeded and fed. You look at this  
Unlikely team I have assembled, offering them freedom from justice  
For their participation. Cynically, you foresee disaster, and it's true  
That there is always one part of the plan that tends to fail miserably,  
But you have to learn to think on your feet. Plan beta: we act  
As a true team, using our strengths for each other's benefit.

Greek fire, a stairway of daggers up a wall, distraction here,  
Force at a weak point there, and we are in the warlord's fortress:  
Just in time to be captured, with the betrayal of two of our number.  
Instead of team spirit we have now pitted against each other men  
And women, an old, stale story. Glaphyra the slaver thinks you don't  
Know much of the world or of men, but you know much more than she,  
Even now. So when the time for plan gamma came around, the melting  
Of the weapons, the plugging of the furnace, the exploding of that  
Blast shield blew the fortress and all the warlord's soldiers in it:

 

(Stanza Break)

My little showdown with the warlord slowed us down, but  
In the end, my plans usually pretty much work, and the higher  
The stakes, the more brilliantly they succeed. I think people  
Saw that explosion as far as Athens, and given the damage Ares'  
Army did to Athena's, that will be a good omen. Meanwhile,  
I figured out the answer to your questions about who you are  
And how it happened. You have always been who you are, bard,  
Amazon princess, best friend, lover. The question is more who  
Would I be without you. You say I'd have managed. Just not as well.

 

 

What They Pretend We Are

 

X.  
People will always try to tell you who you are,  
An Ares to worship of a farmgirl to mock.  
Take this young fool at the other end of these  
Manacles. He has heard all the stories, has  
Memorized all the details of all the battles  
I fought, even and especially the Battle  
Of Corinth, which I remember as a bloodbath.  
He revels in it, has modeled himself on that  
Thing I was, and wants to kill me as the last  
Step toward becoming me. And he thinks I am  
The blind one. My eyes splashed with sumac,  
I force him to lead me to the warlord he sold  
Her to, so I can pull her out of the fire, again.

G.  
People always think they know what I am: her slave  
Because I walk behind her horse, or a maiden  
Open to marrying the next king who comes along  
With a thing for blue-eyed blondes. They dress me up  
So that I will fit the role they have conceived  
For me. Take this king’s nervous servant here,  
Trying to fix my walk, my hair, my accent. It is  
Only when I tell him that I am taken does he help  
Me in my efforts to pull myself out of the fire, again.

X.  
Pretense is dangerous. Pretend to be someone  
Long enough and that’s what you will become.  
Look at me: first village freedom fighter, then  
Warlord with pretensions toward world domination,  
Now, epic hero, attempting redemptive love.  
It is a far better road, young blood. Keep  
Your sword, but put it to better use.

G.  
Pretense only helps if it’s your own, not  
Someone else’s dream of who you are.  
A name only fits when we have named ourselves.  
Look at me: from the age of five, I knew

I was destined for something greater, not to be  
Daddy’s little girl, but the one who could heal  
The world. In the meantime, as I figure out  
The way to do it, I am working as her sidekick.  
It is a far better road, fluttery little man. Keep  
Your skills, but put them to better use.

 

 

Hung-over in Ithaca, X. Sorts It Out

 

Looking back, it was that awful wedding  
Dress and the casket, the way I turned  
My attention away for a second and nearly  
Got her killed. It could also have been  
Penelope’s messenger with his high-fallutin’  
Language that I could tell he used to mask  
Her fear and his: that I would refuse to come  
Here to Ithaca to sort out all of  
Her 108 “suitors” drooling to get their hands  
On her and the Ithacan throne and treasury.  
Well, one to 108 isn’t terrible odds and  
I actually don’t fight alone anymore anyway.

Maybe that’s it. Looking back, I recall that  
On the road she asked me how I overcome  
My fear in combat. I told her it’s a  
Sort of drunk delight, a dream of the perfect  
Battle, a performance like her scrolls.  
She looked thoughtful, said she’d try it  
Next time, as if it were something she could  
Make happen. Strange woman, my friend.  
When we reached the castle, the men were  
All strutting around like peacocks, offering  
Penelope wreathes of flowers. Dark circles  
Under her eyes testified to long nights

Spent weaving by candle light after long  
Days spent scraping these men’s hands  
Off her. And maybe that’s another part of it:  
The way her eyes lit up—not Penelope’s—  
When I said that negotiation wouldn’t work,  
So we’d have to sort this out my way.  
She gripped her staff and grinned. It was  
A work of art, watching her break heads,  
Disconcerting after all the arguments  
We’ve had about violence and war.  
But as she pointed out, in some ways  
Penelope’s situation is the same as Helen’s:

Neither woman chose her besiegement.  
Starting that fight, I was thinking my odds  
Would be, say, ninety to one. I’d leave her  
Maybe eighteen to handle. I never expected  
Her to be calling out numbers as if it were  
Some kind of competition. Looking back,  
I suppose some of her fire was pent-up rage  
From the helplessness of always being  
Kidnapped, held prisoner, threatened with  
Another forced wedding. Maybe that explains  
Why, after we sent them home in pieces,  
And Penelope poured the strong purple

Ithacan wine, we drank long into the night.  
After Penelope stumbled off to her first  
Easy night in years, we talked. Or rather,  
She talked and I listened in surprise. The wine  
Made her bold and her victory made her  
Determined that I would listen. She said,  
“I know you believe you are protecting me,  
But for Zeus’s sake and Athena’s, I am not Troy,  
And if I were, you are a horse I would ride all  
Night.” I have not blushed since I was twelve,  
But my cheeks flushed hot. How else explain  
The things she did that night?

 

 

The Codes We Live By

X.  
By now you should know how helplessness makes me hard  
And mean. Combat is one thing. I fight better than almost  
Anybody, can take on all the opponents, even simultaneously,  
And with style. War is something else. In war, the rules  
Fall away, humanity is a weakness to avoid. When it’s life  
Or imminent certain death, I make the hard calls you hate.  
I am good at what I do, so very good. I can rally troops  
Who have given up on life. I can persuade arrogant captains  
To obey me, gratefully. I can rout even the most vicious foes.  
These skills of mine scare you, in part because you learn  
By watching me, and this is not something you want  
To learn to be. Triage, again: separating those who can  
Be saved from those who can’t, knowing how to tell  
That crucial difference, and making that hard call.  
You hate it, I know. But if you are going to travel with me,  
You need to get used to it. This is who I am, what I do.  
Unlike these cowards, if we are facing certain death, I plan  
On facing it as the warrior I am, with a sword in hand.

G.  
Sometimes when you get hard, almost cruel, I cannot  
Recognize you. The woman I fish with and the woman  
Who leads “her” troops somehow share the same body,  
But everything else familiar falls away. When your only  
Criterion for a man’s value is whether he can fight, or  
If his dead body can appear to be able to fight, then  
No, that is not something I want to learn from you.  
Am I weak? Naïve? Maybe. Believing that violence is  
Not inevitable certainly makes it hard to walk on  
A battlefield like this, but how else do we stop war?

X.  
Sometimes I forget you also live by your own code,  
Just as these seeming-savages do, these soldiers do,  
I do, but unlike our codes, yours does not include  
Hatred, even when your fear is strong. Instead, you  
Always seek to understand, even when the moment is  
Drenched in blood. Even facing certain death, you  
Choose to face it as you are, a woman who will offer water  
To her sworn enemy. Such seemingly small choices,  
As I learn from you, may one day turn the tide of the world.

 

The Lost Mariner, Found

 

It’s no good being practically an immortal  
If you don’t occasionally try something impossible.  
Look at me. Shipwrecked and separated from my sword  
And her, chased by a dozen pirates in the requisite  
Black leather, I see her on the lost mariner’s  
Cursed ship, and I know what I have to do, whether  
Or not it is, technically, possible. Climbing  
The tallest tree, spinning around a long branch  
To gain momentum, and doing a flipping long jump  
Across the water, landing in the rigging. Well, I wasn’t  
Going to let him take off with my best friend.

Sure, he’s had bad breaks. He decided Athena’s gift of  
An olive tree was better than Poseidon’s gift of a spring  
To the Athenians. Poseidon cursed his ship to never  
Land. Athena blessed, or cursed, him to never die  
Until love redeemed him. Well, I don’t care much  
For gods as a rule, but Athena has come through for me  
Once or twice. So I have faith in her. If we return  
To his home port, where his beloved died of old age,  
Long ago, waiting, if we find the whirlpool, Charybdis, if  
We ride its rim and face its dangers, we might find answers.

In the end, the answer is often love. The lost mariner  
Offers his life for me, just as his friend gave his life  
For him, just as I offered my life, today and so many times,  
For her. And Poseidon, overcome, gave him back  
To the earth. Athena the Wise gave him his life back,  
Knowing I would be here on this day, knowing that  
It would be us, the warrior and her friend, who would  
Show him how to set his ship’s compass for true North.

 

Yes, Both Ways

 

The day after the morning I finally woke to turnips  
For breakfast, not broken goose eggs and a trail of blood  
Through that feuding town, I woke deep in the forest  
With you, not dead, not this time, so no need to sing  
My lament, again and again, for everyone I have ever

Loved. The day after the morning we finally realized  
It was over, after nearly a month of todays with no  
Tomorrow in sight, only the constant dueling of those  
Two rival houses, and me chasing them down to stop  
The madness before one of us died of it, again, and I  
Had to build yet another funeral pyre at nightfall,  
We woke to a warm spring day, just the two of us

And Argo standing guard as she grazed. The day  
After the morning I could finally forget all those  
Nasty little secrets I had to learn to convince those  
Two families that they were not so different after all,  
We woke without Joxer barging in insisting that  
We not only rise, but also shine, and so you woke  
More gradually and less grumpy, smiling at  
The fleeting images of your dream as your eyes

Came open and saw me. The day after the morning  
When we left behind the town whose angles  
I had measured so carefully as all around me  
The townspeople took sides in an all-out battle,  
That left bodies of men and women everywhere,  
While I happily ignored the mayhem, climbing on walls,  
Measuring the height of the bell tower and temple  
Roof so I could be sure my chakram would make  
The requisite journey from the south side of town  
To the north in time to smash the bottle of nightsbane  
The girl was planning to drink, in time for her young  
Man from the other house to save her life, we woke  
With our lives back, many funerals avoided, much  
Peace, hopefully, in sight for all those fools, saved

By two young people's love. The day after that  
Morning we rode out of town, left Joxer to go his own  
Way, I was completely exhausted so we rode deep  
Into the forest, made camp early and you caught,  
Killed, dressed and cooked a rabbit while I slept  
Like the dead. You woke me at sunset, fed me  
Rabbit with bread and wine from the town,  
Remarking on the kindness of grateful strangers,  
And I look across the fire at you, remembering  
All our deaths, all the funeral pyres I have sung at  
Over the last month of yesterdays, and I think  
We will not sleep much tonight, but rather  
Celebrate each other's lives. Yes, both ways.

 

 

Cupid’s Arrows, Recollected

 

During this strange round robin of attraction,  
We let our single-minded infatuation get  
Out of hand. I suddenly love this man who  
Wants to take you away from this other man  
Who has always been in love with you, and you  
Are only today seeing him with love’s eyes.

Cupid’s arrows sting haphazardly. Half of the  
Village is running around chasing the other  
Half with protestations of affection, while  
The other half runs away. We were like that  
Once, first out of ignorance of our own hearts  
And then out of timid knowledge. Why

Is the heart such a fearful battleground?  
And how can we calculate our victories  
And losses? Because there will always be  
Losses. Even now I can pretty well see  
Where all this will end. Cupid will set us  
Free of this spell, but the man who loves

You so recklessly because his love is not  
A trick of the gods, he will suffer in his defeat.  
I am the victor. I can do nothing else.  
You and I share one soul. And it would not  
Help his pain if I told him I know that pain  
Because once, for too long, I felt it too.


	3. Charybdis

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Season 3, reimagined. You're welcome.

The Centaur Considers His Human Charge

 

Ten short years I have watched Little Two Legs  
Grow, romping with the other foals, endearing  
Himself to everyone, always ready to help,  
Always the arbiter when the other foals quarrel.  
But lately that other side of him has surfaced  
Like a thrown stone rising out of a pond.  
Ever since he was tall enough to wear  
His father’s sword without dragging its tip  
Along the ground, he has carried it, insisting  
On learning its use. Why did I take it  
From Borias’s dead body on that bloody field?  
What strange compulsion led me to find him,  
Roll him over, unbuckle the weapon? I told  
Myself, at the time, every stallion should have  
Something of his sire’s, but now I wonder  
If that won’t bring out something instead of his  
Mother, the woman who nearly burned down  
Corinth, then put out the fire with our blood.

He is my son too, and my mate’s, and we have  
Striven to give him the education he will need  
To fight his darker nature: philosophy, ethics,  
The laws of the Centaur tribes, as well as those  
Of Men and Amazons. He takes it all in  
Like he takes in food these days, and grows  
Wiser every day. Yet the sword remains.  
And now this warlord threatens our peace  
And Solon wants to fight with the Centaurs  
Against them, though he is neither Centaur  
Nor, yet, a man. and has long to go in his  
Training before he is ready to take on  
A warrior in his prime as these Men are.  
Moments like this are every parent’s fear,  
That we might falter in our stride when  
Reckoning the precarious balance, like  
Crossing a rickety rope bridge, that of  
Knowing when to guide and when to yield.

 

 

S., Future Warrior

 

I try not to think of myself as an orphan, at least  
Not in front of the only father and mother I have ever  
Known. By day, I can be their son, though I am only  
Human. At night, it is a different matter. Awake or  
Asleep, I dream of my father, the noble warrior  
Who chose the path of the Centaurs and abandoned  
Her, the one who killed him with her sword. His sword,  
I carry, and I am learning how to use it, training  
For the day I can face her in combat and kill her,  
Avenging him, a man’s task. Even if I have to die  
To achieve that, I would. In my final moments,  
I would be bringing him back to life, and then  
I can find him in the Elysian Fields and we will  
Finally be together. He can tell me the tales of his  
Past, I will describe my final battle, and I will be  
His son, as well as the son of these, my only parents,  
Who have done their best to love me well enough.

 

 

After the Battle, X. Teaches Her Son the Lament

 

Your father has told you who your first mother was,  
And how she tried to save you from her evil, by giving  
You up, the most difficult thing I have ever done  
In a life filled with difficult things. He says your mother

Sang like Orpheus. I would not put it so strongly,  
But I do know the use of song in a life filled with war  
And death. A good lament can give dignity to a soul  
Untimely ripped from its body. You have, for now,

A clear and bell like treble voice. I will teach you  
The song as I heard it before my own voice learned  
Its final form. As you grow and deepen, so will these  
Words, and their meaning will also deepen and grow.

If you truly want to be a warrior, I will not stop you.  
But do it for the right reasons. Let go of the past, and any  
Ideas of vengeance you used to have. And recognize  
That when your enemies die, just the same as when

Your friends die, especially if your enemies die by your  
Hand, you owe them this tribute, because you deprived  
Them of the chance to change, become good, do good.  
The coins on the eyes and this song pay that debt.

 

 

The Furies Get It All Wrong

 

Even a lunatic with lethal combat skills  
Can tell when she’s being set up to take  
The fall. Ares suggests my late father was  
Jealous, but he says it jealously, as if  
He’s describing a man too like himself.  
“It’s odd,” Mother reflects. “If Ares was the one  
Who visited my bed all those years ago  
In your father’s form, why would he, years  
Later try to convince your father to sacrifice  
You?” Odd indeed. Who is the jealous one here?  
What if the god who took on the warrior’s likeness  
To woo the man’s wife was not in fact Ares,  
Hard-bodied god of war, but Athena, admiring  
Cyrene’s long strength, her everyday courage, her  
Willingness to let me grow up to be whatever  
I became? Of course, there would be difficulties,  
Differences. It’s not like human life is an epic  
Poem, with one direction, one noble ending. But  
What if the Furies have it all wrong? What if the man  
My mother killed years back for his jealous wrath  
Was not only not my father, but in fact also  
Not my second mother, seed of my future self?

 

 

The Grey-Eyed Goddess Makes a Request

 

You recognize my oceanic eyes  
From when they watched over you, long ago,  
As you defended your homeland, family, friends,  
And before your allegiance shifted to my  
Less than dear brother, Ares. He wanted to come  
To you today to make this plea: destroy  
The temple of this single god. But I  
Overruled him. He always lets his sword  
Get in the way of better judgment. I,  
Athena, call on you as my champion,  
To protect your pantheon from this foreign god  
His terrible priests, a future torn into  
Bloody shreds. You yearn for vengeance  
Against Caesar. I promise you, you’ll have  
Your pound of his pride erelong. But Caesar  
Will keep. Let your ally, Boadicea, take  
The glory for this day’s victory, while you  
Do the more needful thing. Protect us,  
Your protectors. Defend your defenders.  
Cut out the heart of this hydra before it can  
Burn down Mount Olympus and all Greece.  
Without us, Caesar will take Athens, Thrace,  
Sparta, Macedonia, all your homeland.  
With us behind you, you will defeat Rome.

 

 

Deus Ex Machina: G. Flashes Back

 

I did not anticipate the knife  
long, sharp,  
its handle fitted for my hand  
perfectly. I did not  
anticipate the altar, a stone  
table like a final resting place.  
I expected  
chanting like a rain of blood,  
of course. A sacrifice  
is a sacrifice.  
But then they reached  
for my new friend  
whose terrified confusion and alarm  
seemed so very  
real,  
and the knife found its way  
into my hand, its handle still  
warm.  
In that instant,  
I anticipated a wash  
of hot blood  
over my hands, pumping out  
the life of this  
priestess. I anticipated a wash  
of guilt,  
not that great  
horned owl attacking, fierce,  
swooping between us  
with a scream—mine? hers?—  
and the clang  
as the long knife, clean,  
hit the floor.  
After, the rest  
was familiar, a battle  
of one, calm, against many, enraged,  
a rout,  
and the fire spreading up and out,  
licking the long linen hangings  
of the sanctuary ablaze  
as I watched,  
my hands  
empty  
and clean.  
The Ex-Priest of Dahak Begs for Help

 

you should have killed us all

I really thought, self deluded,  
we could bring an ancient evil  
up  
into our world and  
not be  
forced to watch

the burning, always the burning  
I can  
barely stand

I could not  
stand  
to watch the kidnapped  
child from the docks  
stab me and turn to flame as he entered  
her, as our world became

tinder for the burning  
you must stop

call on your gods, only a god  
can kill a god, save  
me from mine

 

 

The Grey-Eyed Goddess Gives the Bad News

 

This foolish mortal who has set loose his god  
Speaks truly. To bring mortality to the Dark One  
Requires you to do the impossible: find a sword  
Sheathed in stone and draw it, then when he  
Tries to take it from you, one who has not  
Yet killed must use it on a willing sacrifice.  
Only this mans blood spilled by a pure hand  
Can send the Dark One back to his plane  
Of eternal torment. Even the gods, who made  
This world and all of you, cannot do this  
Deed to save the world from burning down.

 

 

G., Aghast, Contemplates Taking a Life

 

Every night ’til we reached the fortress, I dreamed  
A torrent of blood like a river and I helpless  
In a reed basket bobbing along, crying out  
For help. Every morning, I awakened  
Soaked with sweat and dew, thinking I’d drowned.

I have never seen her so angry, her looks  
So sharp it was a wonder she did not murder this  
Fool with them, and his evil god too.  
If it had been Ares who told us the cure,  
She would have thought it one of his cruel games.

But Athena would not lie to us. She saved me  
Back in that temple, so that the very first  
Blood I ever spilled would not bring us  
To something even worse than the ruin  
We face now. And these strange soldiers,

These Knights of the Pierced Heart, with their  
Quarrelling about their future king  
And the inappropriateness of a woman  
Handling his sword, they made her blood  
Boil. If they hadn’t all jumped away when she drew 

The sword from the stone, she might have been  
Tempted to kill them too, but they dropped  
To their knees so fast, it would have been comical  
If, at the same time, the Dark God in a body  
Of flame had not rained down upon the fortress.

I barely thought at all. In the instant when  
She threw me the sword hilt first and the priest,  
Like the knights, knelt, I plunged that blade  
Right through him, snuffing out the raging flames  
And reflection of flame in his eyes before they dimmed.

 

 

Cradle of Hope: G. Imagines a Mother’s Desperation

 

How desperate would a mother have to be  
To take a child this small, her own flesh  
And blood, wrap it in tight blankets, and  
Relegate it to a wicker basket, sending it away  
To follow the course of the river, praying for  
The protection of the gods? She would have to be  
Very desperate and have a lot of faith in Hera.

She would be on the run from a grim warrior,  
I would imagine, someone whose cold, hard  
Determination she would know to fear, someone  
Who did not value the child as a human life.  
It would be her last wish, her last chance.  
Maybe she hoped that if the soldier found her  
Instead of the child, it would be her blood

On the sword, and not the child’s. How do we  
Even live in a world that forces such terrible  
Choices on us? Why is it so often women who  
Carry such terrible hope? Why so often men  
Who claim that the greater good will be met  
By relinquishing one innocent life? Maybe she  
Was right: better a large basket than a tiny coffin.

 

Gladius Pugna Cum Piscis

X.  
It is almost a lost art, sword fighting with fish. The key is  
To know your enemy and your need. It requires you to know  
The different species, their length and weight, whether you are  
Fishing in salt or clear waters, and switch from one to the other.

J.  
She leads with a pike, then a trout. Bam, bam, two quick  
Bass, and they are slipping on all the fish scales. Oh, and  
He’s taking it on the chin. Was that a sturgeon? And a throwing  
Starfish, yeah, that’ll do the trick. An octopus (I think I know  
A squid when I see one, says Ares), but let’s face it, it was an  
Octopus that she threw in that man’s face, with an evil grin.  
She must have thrown that just for the halibut. (Insert laugh  
Here!) Now, that swordfish piercing the innocent solid that is  
That soldier’s helmet? He lucked out. She was aiming for his head.  
I guess accuracy is a little hard to judge. Now she’s got a string  
Of perch in one hand and her sword in the other. One flying  
Backflip and a rain of flounder later, and the battle is over.

X.  
Like I said, almost a lost art. The key, I have found, is to avoid  
Shellfish, especially lobsters, and to wash your hands after.

 

 

The Third Year of Our Journey Together, Its Shape

 

After they left us to get better acquainted, we moved on,  
Away from the smell of fish, which even I had tired of.  
She was quiet, unnaturally so for her. When I tried to  
Tease her about the magic scroll, she said, “I know.  
I always get it wrong, don’t I?” And I stumbled to tell her  
That was never what I meant, but she would not listen.  
Every step we took on the road after that was loud.  
Even Argo’s breaths seemed like a reprimand, as though  
Even she knew what I had done wrong and wished I just  
Knew better. And all I could think was Here we go again.

Here I am, thinking I am saving the day, doing the hero  
Thing, and breaking everything I love with my own  
Stupidly “epic” strength. Nobody ever remembers that  
Epics are usually tragedies. I had thought I would have  
Learned by now, learned to listen to her, learned to  
Take her advice, trust that she knew what she was  
Doing, as I had always thought I knew. We got through that  
Bad time in Britannia, we got through what could have  
Been a much, much worse time in Chin, because I trusted  
Her, Athena was on our side, and Lao Ma is a rock,

Even when she has let her desire overcome her good sense.  
We got through it, but somehow, still, I am getting it wrong,  
As though the Fates had a plan for this year of my life,  
Which, somehow, I cannot avoid. As though some poet  
Somewhere sat wondering how to make my “epic” that much  
More gripping. I think back to Cortese, to the beginning  
Of my path, the death of one brother, the abandonment  
Of the other, my mother’s desperate grief at the loss of  
All three of her children. I can only hope, as a mother  
Myself, I never feel the ice of that long grieving.

 

 

G. Contemplates the Anachronism of Zero

 

I stop talking for three days and she takes it as part of her  
Epic tragedy, more guilt to wade through like the sea  
Of blood in her past. Red tide: repentance, as though  
Crucifixion were not the way this all started, with Caesar  
And his destination in Britannia, the three parts of  
Gaul, Germania, Iberia, taking the world as his  
Shellfish of choice. I should not mock. Her pain is real.

Her past, hellish. If I have in my small way, helped her  
Avoid more hell, more pain, more blood, then I have  
Indeed helped heal the world, as I once envisioned  
Long ago. But I cannot see it from this vantage point.  
Without proof that I have helped her avoid yet more  
Carnage, I cannot believe that she has any reason  
Whatsoever to value me. But how does anyone ever

See proof of a negative value, of a lack? Even the great  
Greek mathematicians do not know how to prove  
Absence, as if it were an actual number. It cannot be  
Done. Instead, we focus on presence as the only thing  
We can quantify: the dead body, the ghost that reminds  
Us of the illusion of permanence we killed, the ash that  
Remains from the funeral pyres of our storied past.

 

 

Bittersweet Days: On the Long Autumn Road to Athens

 

1\. X. Changes Tactics

For eleven years I counted on secrecy  
To protect my son from those who would  
Do me the cruellest harm by harming him.  
Hidden away in the Centaur tribal lands,  
Anonymous orphan, charge of this kind, just  
Ruler of his people, Solon learned compassion,  
Wisdom, a measure of judgment. Now,  
He says, fatherless again, he wants to see  
The world and study its laws, find his  
Way to make it a steadier, fairer place.

I am proud. Once he thought vengeance his  
Future road. Now he has left off cataloguing  
The exploits of violent men, and looks instead  
To the farmers, the merchants, the magistrates.  
I take him to meet the world. Good King Gregor,  
When he is in your realm, receive him as you  
Would me. For friendship’s sake and the sake of  
My many services, King Lias, protect my son  
As I have protected your daughter. King Silvas,  
Teach him how to embrace generosity.

I had not realized just how many friends  
And defenders he’d have, from Sparta to Thrace.  
Maybe not so much in Corinth, but in Ithaca,  
Queen Penelope pledges her patronage, as do  
They all, from village headmen to priestesses  
Of Athena. This is the only way I know now  
To protect him, this and the great horned owl  
Who glides over our camp by night, seeking  
Prey. The bandits on the road have been  
Light this fall. I work my work, she hers.

 

 

2\. G. Watches X. Grow Looser

 

On the autumn road we teach him the harvest songs  
Of our villages, the sea chanteys her pirates  
Used to sing, the lullaby she devised herself  
After he was gone from her arms into safety  
And she needed comfort for the aching emptiness.

His voice is still that of a boy, though he is growing  
Tall, like her. She encourages me to teach him  
To use his staff for defense, to add strength of  
Body to his quick mind. Sometimes when we have  
Traveled far in a day, he nods off leaning against her

And her eyes glisten. I know not to stare.  
If he feels tears on his face, he does not wake.  
She tucks him in on one side of the fire,  
Then comes around to my side and we bed down.  
I hold her while the tears continue or don’t

As she tries to work out all the things she feels.  
This is borrowed time she never thought she would,  
They would, have. She teaches him to hunt, to climb  
Trees like an Amazon. I teach him my stories.  
The winter nears too quickly. Athens nears.

She holds on to each day with those strong hands,  
Gripping it tightly, and the days are unusually long.  
She is steeling herself to let him go again.  
But even so, she laughs more easily than I have  
Ever known, and her strides, relaxed, are long.

 

 

Sidekicking: Let Me Show You How It’s Done

T.  
Sitting in taverns, I had heard wenches say,  
When the stories turned to the exploits of these two  
Greek women warriors, how they would love  
To get in on that action. Wielding a sword  
Or staff in the pursuit of justice? What a crock.  
They don’t care about justice. They just wish  
To know what it would be like not to be  
What they are: launderers, prostitutes, maids.  
Well, I do more than wish. I research, plan,  
And act. I take what I want. It is a man’s world,

And the only way to get by in it is to  
Act the man. Look at her with her little stick,  
Pretending to be so superior, but underneath,  
A wimp. How can the “warrior princess” fall  
For such an act? Why can’t she see this  
Irritating blonde for what she really is?  
So I decide to do us all a favor, call the bitch  
Out, throw down. It was easy: sucker-punch,  
Choke out, kick to the stomach. I bit off part  
Of her ear, then banged her head against a table, 

Repeatedly. They should have thanked me.  
But that didn’t work, so I changed tactics.  
She wants a goody-goody? I can play that.  
You like saving people? Save me, poor me,  
The one everyone thinks is a lost cause.  
It mostly works. Maybe I remind her of herself,  
Young, impetuous, on a tipping point between  
Evil and good. Anyway, she falls for it. And I keep  
Working the wedge between her and the stupid  
Sidekick, who can barely think for herself.

At least that’s what I thought. Turns out Blondie  
Actually knows her way around that stick. Turns out,  
If she sees an enemy coming, isn’t trying to avoid  
A fight, she can bring the pain. A lot of pain.  
So I try another new tactic, tearful honesty.  
It almost always works but it comes with one  
Danger: once you have revealed yourself it is  
Hard to go back to the safe persona. That is what  
Happened this time. How could I guess that  
Being seen by these two would change me so?  
Sidekicking: The Way I Do It

 

G.  
It’s harder than it looks, this sidekicking. Sure,  
The fighting is easy. But other things get in the way  
Like the way people assume I’m some kind  
Of servant because I walk behind. It’s true I do  
The shopping. I enjoy dickering to get a cheaper  
Price on the blankets or salt pork; she doesn’t care  
About money. That’s why I earn our room and board  
With stories. I cook the game she hunts, gut the fish 

She catches. That’s how we’re a match. We work  
Together. My stick complements her sword.  
She saves my hide and I save her from the casket.  
She dispatches the villain and I write it all down.  
Villagers cheer when they see her because of my scrolls.  
Lords welcome her to the feast, recognizing the hero  
Behind them, Warrior Princess, Righter of Wrongs.

Sure, sometimes we bicker. Sometimes she ruminates  
More than Argo and I’m left in a deep gloomy silence  
Until I implore her, please, to talk. Sometimes  
Her words are unkind. Sometimes I could weep  
With frustration when she refuses to tell me her plan.  
Sometimes we hurt each other’s pride. No partnership  
Is perfect, but still we keep on working at it. 

Some sidekicks are often gripped with fear. I clutch  
My staff and get on with it, leaping into battle with her  
By day, telling her stories by night. Sometimes we wear  
Masks, sometimes play dice, sometimes fight off doom,  
Back to back. We alternate blood, tears and laughter. So yes,  
Sidekicking is nice work if you can get it, good work, with  
The hero by whose side you fight, and much later, sleep.

 

 

Ode on a Grecian Urn

 

What men or gods are these? What maidens loth?  
What mad pursuit? What struggle to escape?...  
Who are these coming to the sacrifice? …  
What little town by river or sea shore,  
Or mountain-built with peaceful citadel,  
Is emptied of this folk…? –John Keats

 

All the water in the Aegean couldn’t wash away  
The deeds I have done, as if a life were a slate  
Where a steward scribbled his accounts. Take  
These villagers lining up in the temple of Apollo  
To be sprinkled with water and told to do good.  
The urn the water comes from was the gift  
Of Apollo, after Zeus caused a rain of fire on  
This town and the priests of this temple pleaded  
With the Sun God to intervene, by distracting  
Zeus by singing and playing the lyre. Something  
Like that, anyway. I don’t have much use for  
The gods as a rule. Hope and change, those  
Have to come from within, not from objects,  
And forgiveness is a much, much longer road.

 

 

The Con Man Places a Losing Bet

 

First, when she was threatening to beat me up, all I thought  
Was This one will take a little work,  
But I never expected that the kind of work she would be doing  
Would be my kind of work. Her plan  
For this multiple-phase, complex con was a work of genius,  
Worthy of our attention, participation.  
Not unlike the roll of conveniently weighted dice, each phase  
Fell into place to perfection, and I  
Played my role with subtlety and skill, although, as it turns out,  
I never fooled her for a moment.  
She saw right through my thirty-dinar bet to steal a kiss from her,  
And thwarted me at every chance.

A game of chance is actually a lot like love, the way you start unsure,  
And the excitement builds and builds,  
And you start to feel unbeatable, like all the coins are falling from the sky  
In a rain of such miraculous abundance  
That nothing you do can go wrong. But even if you and the game-runner  
Think the same thought at the same  
Time, even if you think it a split second earlier than him, you are never  
Going to win. The odds are stacked  
Against you. The house holds all the cards. And a warrior woman traveling  
With another woman? Well,  
I did not know when I made the bet that I was dealing with anything more  
Than a lone Amazon, probably

Longing for the companionship of a handsome man like me, even if I am  
A bit of a rogue. The joke is on me.  
Apparently Amazons don't all long for the same things, and certainly not  
For long things, as it happens.  
Who knew? The heat I felt from her all along was real, but, in the end,  
Insufficient. Even her kiss, when  
I finally tasted it, as I was falling apparently dead from my betraying friend's  
Blade? Hot, but not for me, not  
Really. And when I returned to life to fight for her, with her, and we won,  
Her concern was her friends, not  
Her accomplices. The odds that I had thought would be so short were  
Actually long. I never stood a chance.

 

 

At King Gregor’s Hunting Lodge, She Teaches Me to Breathe

 

We slept on the floor near the fire every night for the first  
Two weeks. She never touched me. I thought I might die  
From wanting. The floor was clean, better than many a bed  
In any tavern we ever stayed in, but even with no rocks  
Or roots beneath my back, I lay awake listening to her  
Breathe, in and out, with the occasional tiny snore.

Breathing lessons, she calls this work we are doing,  
The practices that Lao Ma taught her long ago. All day  
Long, I stand like a stunned squirrel, eyes closed,  
Breathing through my nose, waiting for something  
To happen. Mainly, I just get stiff and cold. She stands  
Beside me, breathing with me, patient as a wall.

Lao Ma told her the story of Bodhidarma, who sat  
In front of a wall at the Shaolin Temple for nine years,  
Meditating, until he could hear the breathing of ants,  
Until his arms and legs grew useless, until finally  
One of the monks cut off his own arm to beg him  
To teach them his fighting art. Even Lao Ma admitted

That last part was probably only symbolic, though  
She did confide that she had also heard the breathing  
Of ants and once that of a butterfly so blue its wings  
Could have been the night sky when the stars were  
Falling to Earth. I sneak one eye open. She cannot  
See me but she knows. She says, “Feel your feet

Connecting with the Earth. Feel Gaia breathing up  
Into your feet, giving you her power. Take up that  
Energy, as trees do, through their roots and up, up  
Into their branches. That energy is Yin, the feminine  
Principle, the dark, damp power you sense when  
You walk through a wheat field at night, when Yin

Is ascendant. You are not ready for Yang yet, the fire  
That Apollo sends down at midsummer, the heat and  
Light that enters your palms and travels down your arms,  
Down your spine, meets the darkness in your belly  
And dances with it, mixing feminine and masculine  
To make a third thing that has no name in any language.”

I try to picture this spiral revolving in the cauldron  
Of my pelvis, but all I feel is a kind of sparking in my  
Legs, as though my bones had woken up and longed  
To grow, as though my marrow were swarming up  
And down. I stumble and laugh, see her smile, eyes  
Still closed. I get back into position, remember to 

Breathe through my nose, remember the day she first  
Taught me never to breathe through my mouth, the day  
After the Amazon battle. I remember the smell of blood  
Metallic in my mouth, the rank sweat of the Centaurs,  
The stink of my own fear. It is so real I jump back,  
Reaching for my staff. Her eyes are concerned. 

“By all the gods!” I say, “Can you smell that?” Relieved,  
She laughs. “For me it was colors. You’ll get used to it.”  
It goes on like this for days, until I feel like Atlas,  
Except the world is inside me rather than on my back.  
I can tell she is pleased with my progress, though she  
Does not admit it. She only nods and smiles. At night,

We lie separate, apart, connected only when our breaths  
Move in concert as they have done sometimes on other nights,  
When my hands marveled at the skin of her legs and thighs.  
I hear her turn over. She murmurs, “You are thinking about  
My skin again. That doesn’t help.” “How could you possibly  
Know what I was thinking?” “Easy. You stopped breathing.”

 

 

Moving Toward Solstice

 

The days grow short. I watch her progress carefully, afraid  
To rush her. She is learning so much faster than I did.  
Imagine if Lao Ma had gotten her hands on her! I skirt that  
Thought, try another: what would she do with that immense  
Power if she were taught it? Unlike me, she wants to heal  
The world, not beat it into submission, as I did. I wanted  
Power. She wants knowledge, beauty, to understand

What it is like to be inside my skin. She takes to this  
Practice like she took to the staff, fiercely determined  
To master what I know, despite pain, despite cold,  
Despite the ache I hear yawning within her at night  
As I lie pretending to sleep, fighting to remain unreachable.  
She probably thinks me cruel. I try to explain that I wait  
To see if she is truly strong enough for these practices,

That my loving her would only interfere, that these  
Things can be dangerous and have to be handled  
Cautiously. She knows a warrior’s life demands some  
Sacrifices, but clearly she had hoped that bathing alone  
With melted snow was not going to be one of them.  
She knows the story of the sparring I did with Lao Ma,  
How every time, two days later, my arms and legs were

Covered with red bruises like a camouflaged dappling,  
While her tan skin stayed pristine, though I held nothing  
Back. She has seen me walk through battle and bar fight  
In just the same way. “It’s like you get hit but their fists  
Just bounce off you.” It is exactly like that. The energy  
Protects me. Don’t get me wrong. It won’t keep a blade  
From cutting my skin or a mace from crunching my bones. 

But blunt force from a blow or a fall? Sure. And that is  
What I want for you, that protection, that extra edge that  
Can keep you alive in a fight, or keep you conscious long  
Enough to run away. This pain you feel now is payment  
For future pain avoided. This battle you are fighting is  
An engagement now for a future war. See, I am doing  
What you wanted for so long, teaching you self defense.

 

 

Midwinter Snow

 

I permit myself this weakness. I was not going to.  
But we hiked down to the village to buy vegetables,  
Cheese, bread and a skin of wine, and it started to snow.  
I carried the package myself, knowing she would want  
To pelt me with snowballs, get a little of her frustration  
Out, and oh, here is me with my hands full, unable to fight  
Back. She liked that, and now I have ice in my hair,  
But Solstice is Solstice, after all. She enjoyed the village  
Market, enjoyed sneaking off to find me a small gift  
As she likes to do. I bought her a new frying pan, to  
Make up for the one I bent when I hit those bounty  
Hunters. I picture her polite difficulty in trying to  
Thank me for something not particularly romantic,  
As hers to me will no doubt be. She has worked so  
Hard every day since we came here, has struggled  
So much every night. She thinks I do not notice.

I was not going to be weak. I remember what Lao Ma  
Said at the beginning, not just the things about desire  
Getting in the way, but things about the give and take  
Of energy, especially when one person is so much  
Stronger, how careful she had to be with me at the start,  
And I wonder too if when she gave in to her desire  
She did not doom her own attempt to teach me control.  
I have only myself to blame for not being then the woman  
I know how to be today. But I promised myself to be careful.  
As she prepares the vegetables for a stew, I go out  
Into the snow to check my snare, find a brace of rabbits,  
Gut and clean them and bring them back to the lodge.  
I take off my snowy boots in the doorway, moving,  
As is my habit, quietly, so it is with surprise that I hear  
Her crying in the other room. I open the door again,  
Close it loudly. Toss my boots on the floor and shout,

“Good news, kiddo! Were having rabbit stew!” By the time  
I crash into the small scullery, her face is dry. “Don’t call me  
Kiddo, ” she says, tucking the handkerchief I made her  
Out of sight. “At least you cleaned them.” “It was the least  
I could do! Happy Solstice.” I mix a bit of snow and wine in two  
Goblets and encourage her to drink. I know she is thinking  
Of Penelope and so I go to give Argo some attention.  
By the time I get back, she is herself again, thinking I did not  
Notice her discomposure, but it only solidifies in me  
This feeling that just for this night, for Solstice, I can  
Afford to give in to my weakness, just a little. We play  
Twenty questions. She never thinks to guess Theodorus.  
We play charades. I never know the names of those new  
Plays. I give her the frying pan. She shakes her head, sadly.  
She gives me a bridle ornamented with little brass circles  
That look like my chakram. I am moved to tears, despite

My best intentions, and I can see her shock. I pour more  
Wine, and the moment passes. I ask her to tell me a story  
And she makes one up about Joxer saving a princess locked  
In a tower by climbing her hair to the top. We roar with laughter.  
And after a dinner of her warm and well seasoned stew  
And more chilled wine, I unroll our bedding furs by the fire,  
Next to each other. I hear her behind me, the quick intake of breath  
That tells me the lightning is going through her, as it does me.  
Gruffly, I say, “Now don’t get your hopes up, kiddo. We are  
Keeping our clothes on. But if you can’t have someone holding  
You to keep you warm on Solstice night, when can you?”  
I lie behind her, kiss her hair, shining in the firelight, lay  
My hand upon her belly, feel the other fire burning there  
As she breathes deeply. I remember how Lao Ma said  
That it was always the weakest things that overcome  
The strong, and I think she never said a truer word to me.

 

 

Inspiration

She calls this posture All Hail Apollo, and at first  
I think she is making a joke. She has long since  
Forgotten the names for all the postures in Lao Ma's  
Language and gives them random names so she can  
Remember them. This one has me standing  
Looking up between my hands, which are raised  
Palms up, one hand to cradle the sun and one, the moon,  
Because even within a yang posture you must  
Have balance between the feminine and masculine,  
The day and night, the cycle of life and death

And rebirth. It is odd to hear her talk like this,  
Like a philosopher. Actually, it is odd to hear her  
Talk this much. I wonder if she does it to distract  
Me from other things I shouldn't be thinking about.  
My body shakes and I wobble in the posture.  
Some days I stumble drunkenly as though pushed  
And pulled by a wind I cannot see. On my skin  
From head to toe I am buzzing. In a way, this  
Whole process is like when I write my scrolls.  
I breathe in ideas from the god of art, and on

My breathing out, I write down what I see  
In my head, my memory of her fighting Draco,  
Say, or the way she grins when running  
Into battle, or perhaps her long hands flickering in  
The firelight. The words come this way, like this  
Wind that is pushing me around from the inside,  
The words are stronger than my body will ever be,  
And I follow where they lead me. Nausea strikes  
And I gag. Calmly, she says, "Breathe into it.  
Don't fight it. Now, let's take a break." And this

Too feels like writing, when I force myself  
To walk away from the scroll so I don't force  
The words, and get the picture wrong. She gives me  
Tepid water to drink and I realize my thirst  
Is triple: for this water, for her, for my scrolls.  
I have not written for weeks and suddenly  
I find myself overfilled with words. I will say  
Something small and beautiful about Solstice  
Snow and firelight, warmth and my gratitude  
And leave it by her pillow before dawn.

 

 

While the Nights Are Still Long

 

I kept her at the meditation far longer than I had  
Expected to due to both my nervousness and desire  
Not to make a mistake, but she showed that fierce  
Perseverance I have learned to expect from her, and  
Just kept at it, taking even the sleeping postures in  
Stride, and waking up every day stronger. Finally,  
I knew we had to make the test, so I pulled the furs  
Together again, boiled water and brought it to her  
In the bathing room, where she sat naked, scrubbing  
Her hair with melted snow and shivering. I poured  
The water and she startled, dripping and reaching

For her staff. "Wow," I said. "You must really like  
That cold water if you're willing to fight to keep it."  
She held the staff tightly in both hands, suddenly  
Aware that I was appreciating the view, as I  
Had not let myself all month. The lightning  
Went through her again, as it had on Solstice,  
And after the shuddering breath that followed,  
She asked, "What changed?" There was no way  
To answer that she would understand, so I just  
Said, "I'm following my instincts," then realizing  
How that sounded, I tried, "I think you are ready."

A few more buckets filled the tub and then I handed  
Her a linen-wrapped package. She opened it  
To see two rough bars of soap. I said, "You know how  
You always lose it. I thought it would be best  
To be prepared." Her blush was unexpected. "Here,"  
I said. "Give me a hand with this?" I watched her  
Chest rise and fall quickly as she fumbled with  
My breastplate and the rest. The warm water  
Was welcoming, as was she. I explained how  
Lao Ma had said that the water would dissipate  
The excess energy from the stronger person,

Protecting the weaker from being overwhelmed.  
Fire and water, she had said this practice was  
Called, fire for strength and water to even out  
The fire throughout the body. At first she thinks  
The water we are washing is the water, but I  
Tell her a bath is a bath. There will be more new  
Breathing exercises in the morning, the ones  
That smooth the force out and stave off the nausea.  
She closes her eyes, exhausted, and I massage  
Her shoulders, stiff and aching from the Apollo  
Posture. I massage her legs, which have been standing

Still for most of the last three weeks. She takes  
Her turn massaging me. The water cools. We dry  
Each other off. I turn, pick up another package,  
Offer it to her, suddenly shy. "What's this?"  
"Something Lao Ma gave me to give you, today."  
Her hands still. "Rain...," she says for some reason  
And I say, "Open it." Slowly, as though in a trance,  
Her trembling hands unfold the linen wrappings  
To reveal shimmering purple silk, a robe so  
Familiar to me that it pains me to see it, but  
A good pain. "It was mine," I say, my voice

Breaking. "She shortened it for you." I shake it  
Out, shimmering, wrap it round her, take  
The wide linen wrappings for myself. She starts  
To protest, but I shake my head with a wet smile.  
"The Amazon Queen should get the best portion  
At the feast." It makes no sense but she nods,  
Overcome, and I lead her by the hand back  
To the fire, the furs, praying to Athena that my fire  
Will not burn her. And it doesn't. She takes all  
My caresses without any of the whole-body  
Nausea I had to overcome with Lao Ma.

To her surprise, I find myself weeping with gratitude.  
I had feared that keeping her heart beating would  
Mean having to forego giving it delight forever.  
And although she knows I will never make  
A constant habit of pleasure, now I will never  
Ask her to forsake it on my account, now that I am  
Sure that her energy will keep her safe from our foes,  
And mine will never harm her, as I had feared.  
And just for now, this time we have taken out of  
The river of time, I will give her anything, everything  
She asks for, while the nights are still long.

 

The Pulse of the Night

 

after a month standing in these postures,  
all day, standing while the fire runs from  
legs to belly to arms or the reverse, after  
feeling the longing pulse through me following  
the fire, after bathing alone and melted snow  
and never able to reach out never the touch  
of hot skin, after a month by the fire and all this  
hunting lodge with all its closed doors, suddenly

she opens the door to reveal an actual  
kingly bedroom, silky sheets more opulence  
than this village girl has ever even imagined,  
and I am shy but she asks me is it all right, I have  
never felt more right, she asks me if she can  
and do I want and tell me where, I barely have  
words for yes and everywhere and please and  
the feel of the soft pearly material against my skin 

and her skin finally, finally available and being  
offered and I do not know how I can stand it,  
and she says would I like and how much and  
if you do not feel, but I feel everything, I feel like  
every bit of her should yes and it is all so much  
more than what I ever thought to ask for as  
my back arches at her touch, as I try to emulate  
what she does and she also can no longer control

it makes sense that a king's bed would be  
wide and silken and then she, even those  
few times at our campfire when we, but a tiny  
part of her attention was always roaming that  
perimeter and forgetting about mine, and instead  
this time she is all focused, all of her focus is on  
me, I never expected I would ever feel the piercing  
fire of her complete attention not on my, not 

on this village girl, not  
on me, on  
all of me, not  
like  
this--

 

Learning a New Rhythm

 

X.  
Now that self-denial is no longer a way of life  
For me, for us, I hardly know how to look at you  
Without being distracted by wanting. For so many years,  
Desire seemed dangerous, a path that might lead me  
Astray again. In the time before, I let my body lead  
And my mind follow, my heart left far behind,  
Unneeded, I thought then, when I thought of it at all.  
You have taught me a new kind of order, leading  
As you always do with your beautiful heart.  
I learned to trust your heart first, long before I ever  
Trusted my own. You taught me that. And now,  
After days of fighting villains, the nights by your side  
Are warm, as you bring me back to my body  
And to yours. I feel like Hercules, longing to labor  
At a string of enormous tasks to impress you  
And show my unspeakable gratitude for your love.

G.  
Now that silence is no longer a way of life  
For you, for us, I feel your eyes on me and I  
Am once again lost for words. For so many years,  
I longed for love, adventure, not knowing that you  
Were out there somewhere, someday to lead me  
To both. Following you, leaving my home behind,  
I saw the road as a fresh scroll, sweet-smelling, all  
Virginal, filled with possibility, eagerly anticipating  
The words waiting to be plucked from my heart  
And written down; as a field, a glorious riot of every  
Color wildflower, and I am a honeybee now  
Drunk with the noonday perfume. By my side  
At night you are warm, your hand resting on my body,  
A lovely afterthought. In my dreams, I labor  
To pick every flower, a bouquet for a warrior,  
Of wildflowers, words, a poem for our great love.

 

 

The Fish Tell Their Side of the Story

 

Moe  
Flying through the air with the greatest of ease, I arrived  
In a sack, awaiting my brothers, awaiting my demise  
As a meal for these strange humans. I thought I was being  
Tickled by the greenery under the lake, was deceived  
By one of her long hands tickling my underbelly, while  
The other punched me in the face. She called it fun,  
Threw two more of my brothers to join me in the sack,  
Swam to shore, promised to gut us. The other two strange  
Humans had different priorities. The one who was in love  
With herself simply ignored me. The other, the ape man,  
Gods bless him, set me free when I told him a joke.  
He sent me back into the water just in time to find  
The first under water, like Narcissa, the one who tried  
To kiss her reflection and drowned. But this one had, luckily,  
A true friend to drag her out of the water and bring her back.

Larry  
Using her own storied cunning, the "warrior princess" human  
Cut some of that yellow stuff from her friend's head,  
To create a convincing prop for our lord and king, Solaris,  
To fall for. Narcissa got grabbed by the ape man, who had shed  
His scales and, naked, swung her through the tall green things.  
He surprised her, and she did not handle surprise well.  
Neither did the warrior princess, who yelled that fish  
Didn't just catch themselves, and she was not wrong. Why  
Would we? But the warrior princess, with her signature call,  
Saved the woman of Troy, of the Nile, of Olympia,  
Of the four seasons, the woman who invented lip-highlighting  
With crushed bugs. She used a stick to beat the other strange  
Humans, make them long for water as they lay gasping.  
She was, as the warrior said, beautiful when she's angry,  
And the beauty having stolen the diamond, someone needed  
To save her, so the warrior princess sent the ape man.  
The minions, new around here, attacked the warrior princess,  
Despite the overwhelming odds, one to only three. 

Solaris  
The fact that the warrior princess used that godlike diamond  
As bait bothers me: how could any fisherman with any ethics  
Use such a celestial object for such a terrestrial aim? But it is  
So shiny that even I, a veteran of the war between fish and those  
Strange humans, even I am dazzled by the sparkle and the shine,  
Even I am transported through time and space by their demonic  
Catapult. Even I accept my place as a new constellation. I am  
Brighter than I have ever been ever been before, because of them.

 

Curly  
While I lay in the sack, gasping my last breath, drowning  
On dry land, I heard the warrior princess and Narcissa cut loose  
The catapult and send my lord Solaris and the diamond heavenward.  
I heard too the insights into their difficulties that broke  
The goddess's spell: one had to make peace with the memory  
Of her dead brother, the other simply wanted respect, credit  
For all she does. Humans. They can put a new constellation  
In the sky (and a constellation of a fish, so double points there),  
But their inferior brains trap them so easily. Must be all that air...

 

 

 

Cramped Up and Bogged Down

 

On days like this we don't even try to be civil.  
I let Argo roam free and graze at will; it's no fun  
Riding a horse with your pants filled with bloody rags.

She's cranky, I'm grouchy, we're both irate, irked  
And downright mean-spirited. Neither one of us  
Wants to cook, which is fine, because neither one

Of us even wants to think about eating. Chewing  
Willow bark to ease the cramps and keep from  
Swearing at each other (I didn't think she even knew

Some of those words!), we manage to get through  
The worst of the four days. And after, when we are  
Back to being human with each other, we wonder

Out loud what would happen to the world  
If Hercules and his sidekick both suffered from  
The turning of the moon as women do.

 

 

As the Romans Do: Caesar, Outmaneuvered

 

Start with a coin, a simple object. Look at the disembodied  
Head floating on its surface, the olive wreathe, the Roman nose.  
He is one of three who share the power in this empire. Money  
Is power but power also comes at the point of a sword

And in the pointed words of Senate conversations. Power  
Almost always involves tradeoffs: if I let you have your  
Aqueduct, then I expect your votes to go my way. We are men  
Who understand each other, who understand power.

Now take this woman, who wants to trade the general  
She has captured for the Gallic barbarian I now hold,  
Hardly an even trade, even for her. Counting on her  
Hatred for me, you trade a knife for a promise. She takes

The bait and I take her, not realizing that I am playing  
Right into her hands. Down in the prison below the hot sands  
Of the Coliseum, she trades the clothes of my prisoners,  
Distracts me with my own spectacle as she defeats both

My gladiators and escapes with my barbarian. And before  
I know what is happening, the body whose head is ready  
To leave it behind, is not the barbarian’s but the body  
Missing from the head on this, the Crassus coin.

 

 

The Choice

 

Three years ago I never would have thought  
That I would ever meet such men as this:  
Caesar, Pompey, Crassus, a triumvirate  
Of generals, murderers, power-hungry men.

She was like them once, did almost all  
The things that they have done and for  
Many of the same reasons. When power is  
Your coin, then life is worth less and less.

Take this ring, a small golden shining  
Symbol, identifying its wearer is one  
Of these three imperial masters. If I put it  
Back on his hand here in this prison,  
He won't be misidentified, executed.

I could save his life. But he is not a man  
For saving lives himself. A man who will  
Crucify children and lie about it later to save  
His own life, is that a man to save? The time  
Is short. I must choose: save a killer or judge  
Him and by judging kill him just the same  
As if I were the executioner I choose. 

Hardened, I walk away from the crunch of  
The axe. The ring is cold in my hand.

 

 

Vanishing, Acting, Choosing

 

G.  
I should have been an actor. I so love the costumes,  
The accents, the chance to be more or, at least, other  
Than what I am. Don't get me wrong. Sidekicking  
For the greatest mortal warrior in the world  
Is a sweet role, one that has taught me many skills  
I never thought I'd need back in Potidaea, like here,  
Impersonating a fence for stolen goods. If only Lila  
Could see me now. What a scroll this story will make,  
Me and "Ezra," two fences bidding, sparring, oh, call it  
What it is: fencing in front of a hardened criminal  
Mastermind, with his own fortress and minions.  
She outbids me with the "ring of Apollo" and I am  
So caught up in the role that I hold it against her.

X.  
Brains versus brawn. He didn't like it when, just after  
He described the reinforced Corinthian steel lock  
With the high-security double-pin mechanism, I just  
Kicked the door in: a strong lock is no defense  
For a weak door and sea air is no friend to wood. Oops.

A.  
Found out and chained up: twenty feet of chain  
And two hundred locks, perhaps my second most  
Challenging feat in as many days, that and figuring out  
How a solid gold statue had been stolen overnight  
By a thief who did not wear my crown. I convinced  
The ladies to aid me in its recovery, not for any  
Goody-goody reason, but because a man's pride  
Sometimes is much more important than his life.

T.  
You think you made yourself, that when I killed  
Your brother, you made a sovereign choice to steal  
Everything I had. You learned the skills of disguise,  
Deception, purloinery and escape. You honed those  
Many skills to the point where you could steal everything  
I owned, bring me down to nothing, humiliate me,  
And thereby get a bloodless revenge for your brother.  
But how vengeant is a bloodless revenge? You longed,  
All these years, in the darkest hours before dawn,  
To see my blood coat your blade, to see my blood  
Darken and congeal, my eyes cease moving, the light  
In them fade, my heart still. Admit it. You did not  
Make yourself, King of Thieves. I made you.

X.  
Don't do it, Autolycus. Don't get me wrong. He killed  
Your brother, turned you into a thief, was determined  
To see you dead. Most people would think you had  
Every right to act as his judge. But what would your brother  
Think? That man loved his brother. Tarsus may have made  
The thief, but it was your brother who gave you your great  
Heart. Is it the heart of a murderer? I didn't think so.

A.  
Back in the courtyard, doing it your way, dealing out pain,  
A little light swordplay and fisticuffs: That's my warrior  
Princess. I love your sense of playfulness. You were right,  
Murder would have changed everything. I will stick  
To larceny from now on, let the law deal with Tarses.  
I am happy knowing that the crown of the King of Thieves  
Has been restored. And if these people want to feel happy,  
That's okay too. I leave you with my thanks and a daring kiss.

 

 

The Flip

 

Of all the things either one of us has ever put in  
Or taken out of the "Macedonian pocket," as she calls it,  
Breast daggers, keys, the occasional trail of scarves,  
I never thought to see this: a tiny doll with my black hair  
Made out of toothpicks and a scrap of black leather.

She says she has broken down my flip into its parts,  
Its relatively simple components: speed, trajectory,  
And the arc of the spin. She doesn't know enough  
To figure out which foot I start on, the right, and that  
Is what makes all the difference. For a right-handed

Person like her to step off on her left foot--well,  
It's no surprise that she ended up with a bad sprain.  
I guess the doll didn't help her figure out the flip. Maybe  
It's more for her own amusement. I like that she keeps it  
So close, though. That just makes a warrior feel special.

 

 

The Final Request

 

First a sprain, then a poisoned arrow. The two things  
I never wanted were to slow you down or be a burden,  
And here I am doing both, first through my foolish pride,  
Trying to do your flip without enough practice, and then  
Through my misguided compassion, going to the aid  
Of the young man I had thought was our countryman,

Rather than a Persian spy. You'd think I'd have learned  
By now how my instincts always get me, get us,  
Into trouble. At first I think the worst of it is that I will  
Miss out on all the fun when the fighting starts,  
That your odds will be three hundred to one, when I  
Might have given you a little breathing room 

With my staff. But then my chest feels so heavy, my back  
Weighted with more than the knowledge I see in your  
Perfect blue eyes as I cough up blood: that the arrow  
Must have grazed my lung, that I just ran out of time.  
I am used to watching you prepare for an uneven battle,  
Rigging traps, boiling oil, setting extra weapons in place.

So when you start to build a litter to get me out of here,  
I recognize that you are abandoning the battle. You told  
The man we thought a scared Spartan that we all feel fear  
But we don't all run, since if we did, we would have no home  
To run to. All three of us believed you when you said it.  
You cannot run. You cannot leave Greece undefended.

If you get me to Thessaly and the antidote for the poison,  
Athens will fall to the Persians, Greece will fall. Then  
What will my life be worth? You say, "First things first,"  
But you taught me that the first thing is the greater good,  
The welfare of the innocent, the protection of the weak.  
There are things worth dying for. Honor my memory.

 

 

Here at What Seems to Be the End

 

In your delirium, you return to the beginning,  
When I with deadened eyes buried my armor  
In a half-hearted effort to bury myself, my heart.  
Your extremis brought me back to myself, as I,  
Knowing no other way, took up my sword again.

I remember your words to me when you chased me down:  
"You've got to take me with you, teach me everything  
You know. You can't leave me here in Potidaea.  
I want to go with you. I've studied the stars, spoken  
With philosophers. I have the gift of prophecy.

I could be very valuable to you. Take me with you.  
I want so much to be like you." Your value to me,  
As we've both realized in the years since then,  
Goes far beyond anything you could do for me,  
Though you have done so much. It is in who you are, 

And how you walk through the world. I want to be  
Like you, a heart for others, eyes that see the good  
In people despite what you know people can be.  
In your delirium, the future speaks to you: you see  
My death as I am attacked from behind, throat cut.

You warn me to look out for a man with a double-  
Edged sword, coming down through the roof. I decide  
To take you and go. Greece be damned. There are always  
Choices. I am done paying for my past mistakes.  
Now, finally, my only responsibility is you.

 

 

What We Have Achieved

\--for JT

 

You are not the only one who can plan ahead  
For an uneven battle. A long time ago, I accepted  
The consequences of our life together, that it might  
One day come to this, to my death, and it has.

I'm not afraid, and neither should you be. You say  
You are done paying for your past mistakes, but that  
Is not all you've been doing these three years.  
You've also been fighting for a better world, a place

Where love combats fear, and wins, a place where  
Justice is unafraid in the face of power, a place  
Where innocence may walk unmolested and women  
And men are the lords of their own bodies. Even now,

If I die here in Tripolis, I have been walking by your side,  
Fighting by your side for a larger purpose than ever  
I had in Potidaea, and we, the hopeful architects  
Of this new world, can die satisfied on its threshold.

 

 

The Decision, Finally Made

 

I know I have finally accepted the worst, all of it,  
When I unbridle Argo and tell her to ride away,  
Not to stop for any stallions, to leave with her life.  
If I cannot save you or myself, at least one of us  
Will see tomorrow's sunshine and shade. I return  
To you. The battle is almost at hand. I carry you  
Up to where you will have the best view, be safest. 

I drag the oil to where you will be able to tip it over  
Onto any soldiers who might get past me. I look at you  
Now, so brave in the face of what is coming, while I,  
The so-called warrior, keep trying to cut and run.  
If this is to be our destiny, we will see it out together:  
I will take out as many Persians as I can before the end,  
Before they take me down and then you. Even in death,

I will never leave you. I have faced death before. We both  
Have crossed from this world to the other side. It is not  
That journey that frightens me but that one of us will make  
The journey alone, and the other be left alone. Not this time.  
You say you are a distraction from my preparations,  
But surely you must know by now that you are the source  
Of any courage I have, of any heroism. In my bone marrow,

Your name is written as you write on your scrolls  
Of my deeds. I am surprised the world cannot read it  
From down the road. It shines inside me like golden sunlight  
On a roaring river, the way the summer heat sometimes  
Makes a long mirage of the open road. But our love is a hard  
And dusty thing like the road, as real as the river, and now  
And always, from here to the other side, we will be together.

 

Turning Point

 

The roar of the hundreds of hooves of the Persian horses  
As the cavalry raced toward the armory where I prepared  
For my expensive death, that roar shook the eaves, as once  
When I was a younger warrior it might have shaken me,  
My heart, my will power. But you don't get to be the Destroyer  
Of Nations without a strong stomach, and I am stronger  
Than most. I pull out all the stops, blow fire at my enemies,

Slice throats, swing my morning star, snap the neck of the man  
You saw in your dream. Hanging by the ceiling kicking out  
At every soldier's head I can reach with my long legs,  
I ask you to push the boiling oil down onto the squad below,  
While I leap to the roof above and take out a baker's dozen,  
Slicing, dicing, kicking and taking no names. War is anonymous,  
Usually, but having made the acquaintance of the so-called

Fearful Spartan, the Spartan who ran away from battle--  
It's just like the Persians to make up a fiction that is so much  
Like the future they hope for--having met this Dorian,  
And recalling his promise to return to us "with help," when I see  
Him through a hole in the roof, standing above you with a knife  
And a wicked look that belies his earlier acting, my fury,  
If possible, expands, turns from a raging torrent into something

More like fire, a conflagration of something more than necessity,  
Something more than hopeless, selfless courage and more like  
Revenge. I don't let it distract me, of course. There is too much  
Work to be done, and before I know it, they have me on the ground,  
But that is exactly when my epic ferocity cuts loose, almost as if  
A theme song played behind me to ratchet up the pain as I deal it.  
And just when I think the wild red wrath is leading to my inevitable

Death at the hands of these demon Persian soldiers, one of them  
Shoots an arrow at me, not realizing that I catch arrows out of the air  
With my breakfast each morning. I sniff the arrowhead, recognize  
The same treacherous perfume as on the head of the arrow that went  
Through your shoulder, that grazed your lung, that gave you so much  
Pain and so little time. Without a thought, I plunge it into his breast,  
The man I blame for our impending deaths, this Dorian. Then the fight

Continues, the frenzied violence as I use a spear to take out several  
At once. While he thinks I am distracted, he tries to crawl for his stinking  
Life, crawl for the poison's antidote. Not fast enough. I tell the crowding  
Warriors to go home, that Greece has thousands of warriors just like me,  
Just waiting to show them the way to their gods and their afterlife.  
You say, "I though you said those guys were tough" as you drink. I say,  
"Must have caught them on an off day." And suddenly, I realize, we're alive.


	4. Navigating the Way

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Season 4

During Their Rare Visit Home, Lila Runs Interference

 

Although of course I wish you would not only visit home  
When a warlord or, as today, an ogre was threatening  
Our families and flocks, I do understand, you know. 

You always had a bigger soul than anyone in this little  
Podunk village every gave you credit for, especially our  
Parents. Father always blamed Her for stealing you away,

Forgetting you and I had already been stolen by the slavers  
And She saved us. After that, it seemed, you felt your redeemed  
Life was yours to live the way you chose. I wish I were

That brave. I imagine your life on the road is hard, but  
Exciting. Father focuses on the one, discounts the other.  
In contrast, mother says you are of age and can choose

Your way, but all the same I can see her hoping that  
That charming man with the funny helmet might be your  
Betrothed. She tries to forget Perdicus. Father acts

As though Perdicus was a demigod, and you some sort of  
Eurydice looking back and cursing yourself and him.  
He doesn't realize that this time, you were Orpheus. 

I read the scrolls you copy out for me, keep them hidden  
Under my mattress. I don't mind sleeping on a bumpy bed.  
I imagine what it must be like for you sleeping on the cold road.

Father complains that She seduced you away from home with  
Her heroics and filled your head with strange ideas, but he has  
Always been old-fashioned. I think the idea of a woman making

Her own way in the world is modern and exciting. Why should we  
Model ourselves after Hestia if we can be Athena? Well, not me,  
Of course, but you two, sure. He bemoans the idea that you have

Been changed forever because of Her, but that is because  
He wants you to be a simple farm girl. Instead, you are epic heroes.  
In his heart he fears you will both meet tragic ends. 

 

Bad Hair Day

 

How is it that some days everything goes wrong,  
One thing after another. I wake from vivid dreams  
Where Lao Ma walked in Athens, telling me that the Way  
Was for birds, white cranes fighting tigers to a draw.  
Gabrielle was tying herself in knots in the center  
Of the city, while philosophers wrapped in togas  
Walked around her, arguing. It felt very like a prophecy.

Then I wake to Gabrielle's foot, a travesty of flesh  
Gone badly wrong, and she blames me for insisting  
That we walk through those swamps even though she  
Had advised against it. Heroic plans frequently go wrong  
Before they go right. She should know that. We have come  
Back to these hills to retrieve Argo, who has enjoyed,  
I hope, some weeks of rest in her home country. Perhaps

I overestimated her weariness from our last journey,  
Underestimated her love for the road and the battle.  
She avoids me, my own horse. How can that even be?  
And then, my head itching as though all my sins came back  
In the form of tiny insects, the "Mighty One" finds us,  
Asks us to help him stop an entire army of Scythians,  
Those deadly cavalrymen with skull-headed daggers.

On any other day, I would not hesitate. Three against  
An army, even if one of those three is him, is no big deal.  
But when two of us are distracted by our afflictions?  
When I am hurt and nostalgic, remembering how we met  
And immediately bonded--not Gabrielle, but Argo. It was  
Like we were made for each other, knew what each other  
Was thinking. And if that wasn't bad enough, Gabrielle

Was trying to find relief with my chakram, which even  
On the symbolic level was disturbing. Doesn't she realize  
This was given to me by a god? Admittedly, the god was  
Only Ares, but still. Then Joxer's radish stew gave her  
And me the runs, both our stomachs talking and feeling  
Like Monday morning in Tartarus. That'll slow us down  
In the coming fight. Luckily one of my many skills is 

Starting rockslides to block the wide roads that armies use.  
That buys us more time to live with our symptoms, organize  
The citizens of the threatened village, get a quick hot bath.  
You'd think she'd be grateful, but apparently she has a dislike  
For my natural remedies. I thought everyone knew about  
The curative properties of goat poo, or that linseed oil is only  
For topical use, not internal. The downside is that with her

Numb tongue, communication is hard. On the upside, that  
Drooling thing she does can be useful for interrogating assassins.  
Maybe everything is a trade-off. In the skirmish in the village,  
Argo ignores my whistle, runs from the sight of me with that  
Scythian general on her back, but that only makes me furious,  
And the Scythians, smarter than they look, retreat. Then,  
My wild determination to get Argo back gives me the answer

We need: when Joxer acts as our secret weapon, neutralizing  
The entire Scythian army, I will get my horse back. I am just  
As brilliant as she has often said. Between my strategic wit  
And his culinary ineptitude, we have this war sewn up tight.  
That's what I thought. I didn't consider that a simple apology  
To Argo for leaving her alone so long might not be enough,  
That my promise to spend more time with her might sound small.

Finally in the field as the general comes at me on her back,  
And she wears the black leather mask of a dark unicorn,  
Reminding me of Cortese and his love of masks, I drop  
My sword. She has never let me die before, despite whippings;  
I have to believe she will not kill me now, and I am not wrong  
In my faith. Between her and Gabrielle defending me, how can I  
Do less than defeat, conquer, and win the day every time?

 

 

The Thing about Feet

 

In the desert, broiled by Apollo’s sacred chariot  
Pirouetting far above by day, feet need shoes.  
The hot sands burn feet that are naked, soft:  
A fitting punishment for such blatant  
Immodesty. More importantly, shoes hem in  
That excess energy, degenerate in its shape,  
The lustful movement that grips feet  
When they are loosed from discipline.

(They say in their past a fire swept through  
The town during a dance and they, losing  
Everything—homes, shops, temples—  
Lost also their nerve, but because mortals  
Hate the idea of chance, they blamed Calliope,  
And now they roar from rooftops that  
The Muse no longer approves of dancing feet.)

But thinking of feet in such a pedestrian way  
Denies the other truth, that even in a desert,  
Feet burn to dance, leading the body to writhe  
Like flames, rising into such a raging conflagration  
It threatens every family. Feet don’t understand  
Such dangers. They only know the tapping, not  
The fear that tips over into paranoia, a fear  
Not of the thing, but of the fear itself, not

The enemy at the gate, but the foe in the heart  
We carry wherever we go. To overcome such  
Threats requires the heart, discipline, and  
Nimble feet of a warrior who knows that sweet  
Choreography of combat, its steps, turnings  
And returnings, and when to retreat from it  
To a more civilian and civilized fluidity.

So maybe in the end, the key is focus: knowing  
Which conformities we will accept like a warrior's  
Code, and which we will cast aside, like someone  
Else's orthodoxy, someone else's shoes. Choosing  
A heart filled with joy, a body filled with sunlight  
And a playful wind, we take the chance, risk chaos  
And assert our own mastery, the instincts of our own  
Feet as the music starts and we embrace the dance.

 

 

What Prisons We Choose

I have seen the hardness of self-discipline  
Before, a part of the self held back, perhaps  
Long since cut off. Phantom limbs still ache,  
Old wounds given too little care, scarred  
Over, become tough and must be hidden  
Away. In the face of such stale pain,

The only response possible is gentleness:  
Careful hands, caring eyes. It surprises me  
How much she reminds me of you,  
Carrying around that much pain like a limb  
Cut off and strapped back on, weighty  
In its deadness. Hidden away, she presides

Over other people's pain. For some, punishment  
Is a way to feel: their punishment, yours.  
You too hide, your brokenness cloaked by your  
Dark strength. You rarely show weakness; instead  
Resilience, laughter and bright teeth when you  
Are chained down, overcome, down in the mud

And rats. Any other hero would die from these  
Hundred tiny teeth. Not you. Like a ratter at play  
In a reeking barn, you send them flying, squealing,  
Your victory rank and slimy, but effective.  
She is not so strong. She never could claim anything  
More than survival from t he pit her soul suffered,

Not victory certainly. She rose from her pit alive,  
Broken, missing one limb and half a soul. You rose  
From yours filthy and invincible. You cannot  
Accept forgiveness. Very well, carry your own  
Prison with you, as she does, if you must. But know  
I will always carry the key to get you out.

 

 

Lux

 

Light for its own sake is dazzling,  
Seductive. It repels the nightmare,  
Warms the flourishing spring fields,  
Adds sparkle and flash to cascading  
Waterfalls frothing into the river's  
Long unswerving flow, the line on  
The map that guides us on our way.

Darkness too has its place, to be sure,  
But it is not growth. Darkness rules  
The abyss, the terrified dream, the night  
Ambush. Darkness falls and we lose  
The path, stray from the journey we know  
We are meant to take. But that light, too,

Can make us lose the path, if we are  
Blinded suddenly, or if the light, so  
Bright, makes correspondingly  
Dark shadows, obscuring the truth.  
Consider two women: one, a shining  
Crusader, aglow with her own mission

The other, a dark warrior burdened by  
Her log night journey thought her guilt.  
You would think by now I would know  
Not to reach for the toy because it shines,  
But rather to settle into the darkness  
That embraces the two of us as we sleep.

 

 

 

If the Key Fits: Meg Explains

It was brilliant. I just walked up to the good thief as he was  
Gloating over his enormous ruby. I let the armor do the talking.  
I kept my mouth shut. Sure, I know how to sound like Xena,  
But generally the silent treatment works much better. I let him  
Imagine the pounding I would to give him unless he did  
What I wanted. Saved me the trouble of talking, and he'd imagine  
Something far worse than I could come up with. Our plan worked  
A little too well: he gave up his ruby in fear. What an idiot.  
When Joxer, that lovely man, explained the plan over grog  
In the tavern, the good thief resisted. Well, we expected that. 

And although Joxer's plan of bringing us in chains to the two  
Warlords had some value, with the thief's plan, I got to beat  
Them up, send them on their way with a warning not to risk  
The wrath of Xena! Then the soldiers personally escorted me  
Into the castle. Those two warlords? They were even dumber  
Than Mr. Stinky, whose plan moved along just the way he said  
It would. I told them I was starting a new army, that my enemies  
Had learned that I was planning to make an alliance with these two  
And was sending an assassin, all tied up with their secret police.  
They showed me their security arrangements, the soldiers on each  
Floor, and as I went I marked doors with chalk so the good thief 

Could climb up the tower, pose as the assassin, who I could conveniently  
Catch and send to the dungeon, which made a pretty good diversion  
So I could take the baby and walk out. I told them to lock him up with  
Scythian double-latch locks, which, he said, "were not his forté."  
Back in the stable, Joxer realized that I had used him and his friend.  
He was really mad, but I told him a child was all I'd ever wanted,  
That I wasn't lying to him, I just sorta tricked him. He went off to find  
The child some cheese and pickles and fresh trousers. I told the baby  
The second part of the plan, where we would go somewhere, just me  
And him, and Joxer 'cause he's funny. It was a good plan. I might finally be  
Happy. I tickled his feet, called him a cheeky monkey. He laughed 

And laughed. But Mr. Stinky came back to complain, steal the baby back,  
Collect a big reward. I hit him with my trusty shamrock, but by the time  
He was seeing stars and tweeting birds, Pumpkin had crawled away.  
I searched for him throughout the town square, under tables, between  
Stalls, all around us. Joxer, the thief and I fought the soldiers as the baby  
Drove off in a chariot. You'd think, in a life filled with problems and  
Mistakes, unraveled plans and unfulfilled dreams, I would have expected  
This: my big dream exiting stage right, at speed. But I underestimated  
The hearts of my co-conspirators, their willingness to put themselves  
In the way of danger for the life of a child. Mr. Stinky took me on his  
Horse and we rode like blazes after the chariot. Joxer slowed  
The chariot down and I leapt from the thief's horse to the chariot,  
Reining it in and saving the day. At the campfire that night, the boys  
Demanded an explanation. I tried to convey my feelings when I heard  
About this child: no one to love him, tell him stories? I just reckon  
That's a lousy way to grow up. Then it was the thief who suggested  
That we go after the crown of Athena, using the baby as the key.  
Well, neither me or Joxer have lots of money. If I wanted to raise this baby  
To grow up in one of those houses with the happy families like I used  
To think lived in the stars, I was going to need more than just my wits  
And his warrior prowess. So we traveled to the temple of Athena,  
But the warlords and their soldiers followed us. As we fought them off,

The baby crawled onto the pillow in front of the door, and a golden light  
Splashed through the room and suddenly the baby was a young man,  
And I knew that yes, this was my Pumpkin, all grown up. Together  
We fought them off, well, together with Xena who returned at the last  
Moment as she likes to do. Turned out, my Pumpkin was the old king,  
Turned by Athena into a child to see his people anew. Turned out that  
Gryphia, his guardian, was his queen, who Athena made old so she could  
Learn how to care. Xena tried to tell me that someday I would have  
A family, and love like that, but she doesn't know what it's like to be  
A tramp like me. Even I know that real love requires respect. Who would  
Respect me? In a life like mine, even a glimmer of hope is painful.

 

 

Point of View Changes Everything

 

I guess it's all in the way you tell the story.  
Are you the enlightened daughter  
Who understands her evil stepmother's  
Inner psychological underpinnings, how  
Her mistreatment of you and your things  
Is a way of avoiding intimacy? Or are you

The stepmother with the wildly disparate  
Daughters, one who will captivate the prince,  
One who will repulse him? Are you instead  
The stepson rejected by his own mother,  
Warlord father, assassin brother, badly  
In need of a tall, dark fairy godsmother

To teach you her many skills so that you  
Have a brief chance to dance with and for  
The golden princess? Such opportunities  
Are never permanent. Somehow the sand  
Always runs out, and so must you. The way  
You tell the story tells more about the teller

Than the story told, more about the listener  
Than the characters themselves. And sometimes  
How you tell the story tells a good bit  
About how you see your friends. Am I just  
The fairy godsister of dishwashing?  
Am I the angry woman who advises even

The goddess of love on love? If you are  
The warrior woman who refuses the prince's  
Offer because you don't need another person  
To win your happiness, then work with me  
Fairly to achieve what all of us really want:  
A mutually acceptable happy ending.

 

 

Temecula Watches His Village Burn

 

When the warrior princess stood up there  
And told us to make our village useless  
To Caesar and Pompey, I had my doubts.  
Of course I knew her reputation. All of Greece  
Knows the woman warrior and her companion,  
The Battling Bard. But when she said we must  
Burn our village, raze it to the ground, kill  
All the cattle and poison the meat, that was just  
Too much, I think. I am young, I know, and  
Optimistic. I offer my bow in service to this  
Warrior princess, to this, my village. But burning  
our homes? I think that is too much to ask  
Anyone. She says it is the only way, as if she has  
Considered all the other option. I think she  
Has not. But the wife of Phlanagus steps forward  
Firmly, takes a stake from the blacksmith's fire  
And tosses it into her home, more a warrior than  
Any of us, including her husband, the hoplite  
Commander. The orange flames, the smoke,  
The smell of burning, the acrid scent of our old lives  
Burning away. And the warrior princess watched,  
Moved by our sacrifice to gods not paying attention.

 

 

 

G. Makes a Different Choice

 

The ring was a mistake. I know that now. But that  
Very knowledge led to another mistake. I will see  
This scene in my dreams for years to come:  
Phlanagus rejoicing in a battle almost won, ignoring  
What he knows of the truth of war: no one wins.

The Roman came up behind him. I was too far away  
To change the outcome. He blocked the man's sword  
But fell to the ground and could not rise. To change  
The outcome, I picked up a javelin, hefted its weight  
Aimed, threw it awkwardly, failed to make a difference.

That damned ring has me questioning my choices.  
She always says when the kill is there you must  
Take it. Did the ring skew my aim, make me miss  
The Roman who killed my new friend? Did the ring  
Lead me to fail to kill his killer, get him killed?

And worse: after my failure, after his death,  
This boy who had never killed before put an arrow  
Straight into the heart of the Roman who killed  
His almost-father. More blood on more hands, again.  
I say that killing changes everything. At least, it does

For me, and I think it has for him, though revenge  
Does have its appeal--a hollow appeal to be sure, but  
Whatever gets you through your dreams of war,  
Your waking to sweat and fear. She says that war  
Is a bitch, but I think it is always more complicated

Than that. She says that all you can say is the greater  
Good, that somehow there must be a reason for all of this  
Suffering, but that the weight on my shoulders will  
Keep me numb. Focus on the fact that it was a good day  
Of fighting. Ignore the fact that fighting is never good.

 

 

 

What It Means When I Smile

“Enjoying one’s strength and taking pleasure  
in defeating the world’s baddies is NOT the same  
as enjoying beating the crap out of people  
because you can.” –Deb. E. McGhee

 

You say I smiled when I threw that brigand  
Into his friends, sending them all down the mountain  
Like a thread of dominoes. You are not wrong. Some  
Would call it a wince. He was big enough, and heavy,  
And his sword did cut my leg, after all. But, sure,  
I often smile when I’m fighting. I enjoy my work.

You wonder if my fighting for good has less to do  
With the good part and more the fighting. You fear  
My “dark side,” think my fighting for good might be  
A cover for something darker. I don’t know,  
But my instinct says it’s not. I enjoy my strength,  
Enjoy using it to thwart those who are also strong

But use their strength to make others be or feel  
Weak. If someone is going to attack me, then, yes,  
I will take great pleasure in watching them fail.  
And not too long ago you joined a fight I was in  
Swinging your staff, shouting, “Leave some for me!”  
So yes, I smile, but so do you, from time to time

When the battle is on and your staff is moving  
From head to head like an autumn hurricane.  
You also enjoy the fight, the proof of your strength,  
The speed and solidity of a contest of wills,  
Of bodies pitted against each other and yourself  
The last left standing, next to me. So, yes,

I smile and I will continue to smile, because I am  
Alive and strong and I have many skills, A fight  
Like that is a thing of beauty, You’ve taught me these  
Last few years to appreciate beauty wherever I find it,  
Whether walking by my side or tumbling down  
A mountain, a green stream or a band of brigands

 

 

X. Contemplates Yin and Yang

 

Deep in the wild green profusion of this mystic's garden,  
The songbirds clamor for attention. To gather myself,  
I follow the form Lao Ma gave me years ago, that she called  
Supreme Ultimate Fist. Her people like flowery descriptions  
Of things that otherwise would seem brutal, like this  
Continuous striking motion, hands like white clouds,  
That I have used so many times from bar fights to battles.  
Slow like the armored tortoise, I turn, holding the ball of chi,  
But it builds up inside me like a wave and I cannot hold  
The stillness, the slowness, the forced serenity of the form.  
Soon even the cherry blossoms and birdsong are an offense  
To my ears, a commotion of small things sounding loud  
And I, wide-eyed at the din, am troubled by the raucous  
Confusion in my own soul, that old feeling of too much  
Passion, too little compassion, too little anguish then,  
Far too much now. A guilty conscience is like a squeaking  
Wheel or a nail that stands up in the floor to trip the unwary.  
Only a loving heart can silence or flatten such things.

Hard the stone path indoors yet hung with lilacs, his house  
Is strange, a kind of paradise, and he, well-muscled,  
Guides you in breathing exercises. He watches your body  
Lovingly, I notice, as you engage in a kind of dance,  
Moments of stillness, moments of movement, then  
Once again stillness. It pains me to watch you together.  
I am not concerned about his designs for your body,  
Your pure skin, the muscles in your back, the strength  
You have learned from your staff. His hands, I think,  
Are blameless, and I cannot blame his eyes. No,  
You don't give away what is only yours and mine.  
Rather, it is your spirit that concerns me, that lovely  
Wanderer, forever roaming with a hungry heart,  
That I fear he lusts after. He tells you to let the pain  
Rise, accept your inner demons if you want to release  
Them. I can't fault him on that logic, nor on the premise  
That if you would heal the world you must first  
Heal yourself. You grant him your sweet smile.

You are on the yang side of the bed in our relationship,  
The bright one, the warm one, the one who everyone  
Is drawn to. Sometimes I wonder if I am even in the same  
Bed. My mind so active, my body so restless, I chafe  
At every day we do not get back on the road. Almost  
I bloat with inaction. But then you pull something  
In your back, and I know I can fix it, my healing skills  
The one thing I can count on even in my greatest turmoil.  
Your perfect back, my perfect hands. We have come  
A long way and you have taught me many things:  
Kindness, mercy, love. Love is what allows me to draw  
The pain from your much-loved body and throw it away,  
What allows me, walking away from you, to see so suddenly  
Clearly the answer to this strange trouble we find ourselves  
In, this man's clutches teaching you how to submit  
Your will to his hold, to still your heart and breath to fit  
His needs. I grow chill at the thought of the loss of you,  
Of you turning into one of these strange blue statues.

Uncharacteristically, I draw upon the yin, the dark, damp  
Force, the night-time watcher, the bit of me I know  
You sometimes fear. I pull all of my most treacherous  
Feelings together, an ocean of pain, a tidal wave of grief,  
A total combustion of all the tindered feelings I never know  
How to name, much less feel or address. You are the smart  
One, as I am the strong one. But at times like these, those  
Dichotomies break down, when you, in your quest  
For inner peace, lose wisdom, when I, in my attempt  
To save your spirit, am forced to rely on my spirit rather  
Than my body, that strong body I normally can trust  
To get the job done. Here in this terrible paradise,  
We pour gold over the breaks in the vase, we offer  
Each other our weaknesses for the other's salvation.  
Only such sacrifices will appease the gods of war  
And love and the making of many mistakes. Only we  
Can move through the postures of almost love and love,  
To find the poses, the realities of holding each other close.

 

 

Mistaken Identities

Even a second-rate street illusionist knows when  
Things aren't right and you should ask for help.  
My act was perfect, my timing impeccable. Nothing  
Should have gone wrong, but the land of the spirits  
Didn't agree. They sent back my lovely assistant  
Possessed by an evil spirit, a demon who then  
Possessed someone else, though it took us a while  
To figure it out. Your young companion at first  
Seemed to be the healing deity, and I so longed  
To know how she did it. I tried to hypnotize you,

But you saw right through me and my charlatan  
Ways. So I told you the truth, that once, long ago,  
I seemed to have healed someone, and since, I have  
Sought for the way of it, to know how to heal  
All the terrible suffering that goes on in the world.  
It was bad enough when you suspected me  
Of killing the zealot priest, but when your friend's  
Burly bodyguards disappeared and suddenly,  
Her look told me danger and then half a dozen  
Wild dogs found me, chased me, terrified the piss

Out of me as I ran back and forth across the village,  
Hoping to outrun them. You managed to get me away  
But then I ran into your friend, or not-your-friend,  
With her pearls. I ran away, claiming I had been healed.  
You tracked me down. I told you about the Ganges  
Water, the demon Tataka, the deceiver who heals  
And kills. You figured it out, conceived a plan, as you  
Always do. Your friend being worshipped by the locals  
Threw you, but you figured out how to bring her back,  
An exorcism, though you could not do it alone. This time

Finally, I did not run away. The demon tried to trick me,  
But you insisted that I find my power inside. You gave her  
The pinch, and my god gave me the power to oust  
The demon, send it away. You kissed her head, as you do.  
We both realized the power of love to heal despite evil  
And greed and all the things that keep people apart.  
Now, I am walking away to think about things. You are  
Going away to fight the evil that brings suffering  
To the world. You fight them together showing others  
The power of knowing when not to run away.

 

 

 

Possessed

 

Underneath all these pearls, the crown,  
The elaborate makeup, you claim that you  
Are still you, but I wonder, which you?  
When I look at you I see so many women:  
The village girl from Potidaea, begging me  
To taker her with me, the Amazon Queen  
With staff and feathered headdress, riding  
Into battle, the you who wore my armor  
That one time I nearly died, again. Which  
Of these are you? Or are you the serial  
Follower, taken in by crusader and mystic?

You hate that I am so untrusting. You cry  
And it hurts me that I am hurting you,  
Again. But soon the demon hiding inside  
Your "sweet little body" is sizzling, again,  
And everybody is getting burned. In the end,  
The pinch and an illusionist's fledgling faith  
Rid you of the demon, leave you whole,  
Again, at last. I kiss your forehead, foretelling  
The future I hope for, that you, that we  
Will be all right. And we are healed once more,  
And once more together heading down the road.

 

 

The Monkey King Explains

 

Once, long ago, I insulted the Heavenly Emperor  
And was sent on a journey west, to help  
A priestess on her path to India to retrieve  
The Buddhist sutras and translate them.  
She and her companions returned to Chin,  
But I stayed in India, in love with the people,  
Their stories, their need for a protector.  
I stand by the way I have chosen, though  
Sometimes I grow nostalgic for my home,  
The soft mountains of Chin, its broad valleys,  
The rivers with their dragon guardians,  
The autumn rains, and my first people.  
Now you appear, a warrior from equally  
Far away, who knows my first home, loves it,  
Remembers it with a passion I admire.  
For that gift from you, I will give you a gift  
In return, a way to save your friend. I will  
Help you get the attention of Lord Krishna,  
Who will show you the way to destroy your foe.

 

 

X. Lays a Burden Down

 

Watching her question our road together, over and over,  
Watching her seeking for something else, something  
More: it hasn't been easy lately. Of course, I want her to find  
What it is she is looking for. I just wish she didn't always  
Make me feel like I am about to be left behind, like

I am the obstacle keeping her from finding whatever  
It is. Everyone in all the countries we've traveled through  
Talks about the Way like it's the road through town,  
Or else an invisible path to inner peace, a shear  
Impossibility. Now this god tells me I am very close to it

But I don't even know what it is. It always seems  
To be a thing for saints and mystics, not for an angry,  
Ass-kicking warrior like me. But no, he tells me not  
To hesitate to fight in a just cause, that it is better to die  
Following your own way than live following another's.

I feel something shift inside me and I grow lighter,  
As if I had been carrying a heavy burden, something  
Large and awkward and necessary, but suddenly  
I know I have no need of it. I can be who I am, who  
I know myself to be, without fear, without guilt or shame.

 

 

G. Embraces a New Vision

 

I don't know what I am going to tell the Amazons,  
About how the constant conflict, all the blood,  
Has exhausted something inside me that I need  
To make strong again. Yes, there is a fierce pleasure  
In fighting, in knowing myself competent and able  
To keep myself safe, help protect the innocents,  
But sometimes I think those local motivations  
Belie a larger need to transform the world.

When the land in turmoil cried out for a hero,  
They weren't thinking of me, although for a while  
I thought I could help her best by doing it her way.  
But I was not forged in battle as she was. My birth  
Was in the ink on the page, the vision of my scrolls  
That someday all the fighting will become unnecessary,  
That peace could somehow rule and war fall fallow.  
Now I feel that I stand on a precipice, caught between

The necessity to stay on the dangerous road with her  
And the urge to take a bigger stand than simply  
Telling my stories. I have a bigger destiny to explore,  
That of a healer for the broken world we walk through.  
It reminds me of that young man Hippocrates, who said,  
"First, do no harm." So here, on the edge of the holy river,  
I decide to make my stand, throw my staff away, take up  
A far harder path than I have been on all these years.

 

 

Something about Ego and Pretension

 

It's hard when you have figured something out,  
Something as big as this, this path out of the cycle  
Of violence, not to tell everyone you meet how to live  
Their lives, from your best friend to total strangers.  
That pretension pretty much never works. Take this  
Play I wrote because somebody stroked my ego.  
I was a fool to fall for their feigned interest in  
My vision. I wanted to heal the world and I thought  
That perhaps I could tell the story in such a way  
That even the most violent would hurry to lay  
Down their swords. Ridiculous, I know, especially  
Since the stories people love most are not about  
Peace but about conflict: you put your characters  
In a beehive, close up the opening, shake the beehive,  
And if that isn't enough to get your characters  
Feeling all the pain, there is always Greek fire.

So I added violence and skin to a play about peace  
And love. I should have known better, but this is not  
The first time my ego has gotten in the way of my  
Good sense. I hope to the gods it is the last, but  
Somehow I doubt it. Sometimes I feel like a character  
In a story with a writer who does not love me,  
Who manipulates my emotions for his or her  
Pleasure, caring not one whit that I never asked  
To be put in this beehive in Britannia or that one  
In Chin, or there in India or here in Greece.  
If I could believe that, I might find myself again,  
Let go of my ego and desire, my desire to preach  
To people who aren't listening and would not  
Learn that way even if they were. People need  
To experience things for themselves. It is just ego  
To think they could learn these values from my stories.

 

 

The Convert Emotes

 

I know how to play all the notes, convince this young woman  
I am fixated on that I am exactly like her, that we share a bond  
That even the warrior princess does not, could not, share with  
Her. Only I. And the tall dark wonder discounts my claims  
That I have truly changed, as if she were the only one allowed  
To forge a new path in the world. She threatens to change me  
In totally unpeaceful ways if I hurt her bard. I taunt her,

Tell her that hurting is her job, that their future together  
Will be bleak. How is that love? Her blue eyes grow hard,  
Maybe even just a little bit tortured. Yes, I am that good. I pull  
All the strings. I play the "dark side" card. I suggest to the bard  
That the warrior princess will one day go too far; I pretend  
To be altruistic as I am saying it. It is no coincidence, I think,  
That the purpose of our journey together as I heal and before

They can drag me back to prison, is this quest for redemption,  
Of Joxer telling the son of the warlord he killed the truth.  
They say the truth sets you free, but holding onto the truth  
To protect another person? That doesn't always end well.  
The truth will out. Sometimes the truth needs help to out.  
I love to help. I can even make it look like I am doing it  
With all the best intentions. I even get the bard to argue

On my behalf, do my work for me, say that it's better to have  
Peaceful people around rather than people who fight, people  
Like the warrior princess. Once again, I have successfully  
Come between them. And if that wasn't enough, I also managed  
To come between Joxer and the warlord's son, who was just  
Starting to like him. And all with the truth, nothing but that.  
But to tell such a truth to a young man, full of anger? 

It's almost murder. Almost, but not quite. We fight in the trees  
And I tell her the light will triumph, but she has had too much  
Experience with darkness to be fooled by me. She has fought  
In the trees enough to almost defeat me, but I am innovative,  
Angry, hungry for the kill after all these months of no fighting.  
Oh, I know all the moves, all right. But in the end, that is not  
Enough. Her darkness overcomes what I had thought was light.

 

Whodunnit?

 

A hundred possible scenarios present themselves  
To us after we find the body of the bounty hunter.  
We all distrust each other. We all imagine scenarios  
Where the other person has the motivation to kill  
This woman. It's not hard to understand. Fear does  
Make people make choices that have consequences.

But then you come running in saying, "We've got  
Trouble," as if to say that my troubles are not only  
Mine, but also yours, which would make me feel  
Better if you didn't follow that up with "There is  
A bounty hunter after you. She's on the floor...  
Dead? I guess you found her first." Must you always

Assume I will kill first and ask questions later?  
And then Cyrene makes a bad joke about bruised  
Pears and you say, "She is your mother," and we know  
There is no accounting for mothers. Well, at least  
Mine likes you. If we were at your parents' house,  
My body might be the one bleeding on the floor.

And with Discord popping in on the hour with her  
Shirtless men and her wicked-looking bow, making  
Threats to take us all to Tartarus in a handbasket  
If we don't give up the killer, that's got everyone  
On edge. The fight that followed broke half  
My mother's crockery, several tables, and almost

Set the inn on fire from all the candles falling from  
That iron chandelier, but it gave me the answer  
In a flash of insight: Argo in the stable with two hoofs  
Plus the chandelier in the bedroom with the knife  
Are the killers here, so Discord is left empty-handed.  
I'm left apologizing to my mother for suspecting

That she would kill to protect me, the former Destroyer  
Of Nations, and always her child. It doesn't take a killer  
To know a killer. It takes someone willing to do whatever  
It takes to protect her friends and family to recognize  
The same kinds of hearts at work, the same kind of love that  
Makes us people who will do almost anything for each other.

 

 

Endgame

 

When Artemis came to us and asked us for our help,  
I was overwhelmed at first, not knowing how to keep  
To my way when all of the Amazon tribes were at risk.  
When do the numbers add up to make violence not only  
A valid choice, but an unavoidable one? I remembered  
The story David told me about going in by night  
To his enemy's camp, stealing the king's clothes, spear,  
And drinking cup. You said we could make it work  
With Pompey, but there is always a second part  
To your plans. I did not expect you to raise an army  
Of Centaurs and Amazons to ambush the demoralized  
Romans, kidnap the naked Pompey and take back  
The Amazons he had planned to sell to slavers.

Between you and Ephiny, the Romans didn't stand  
A chance. By bringing the army to the weakest of all  
The Amazon villages, you minimized the damage  
From the fighting and took the Roman horses, grain,  
All the spoils of war. But the peace treaty with Caesar,  
That was my idea, and the battle you fought to shred  
Pompey's army, Pompey's dignity, to force Pompey  
To fall on his own sword, all the violence I so hate  
Discouraged Caesar from turning us down. I still  
Don't trust him. He's a snake but without the snake's  
Honor. But if we can use the time between now  
And when he strikes again to build up the Amazon  
Nation and the Centaurs, we might be ready for him.

 

 

Ares Arranges for a Furlough from Tartarus

 

You see, Callisto, Hades never was too bright,  
So when I pointed out how he's been operating  
At a deficit since the warrior princess and her  
Girlfriend went to India, he said I could talk to you,  
Maybe take you back upstairs, to help me fix  
Things. I've always said the irritating little  
Blonde was a menace. I know you agree.

I'm just afraid this new "way of nonviolence"  
Might get popular, unbalance Mount Olympus.  
Love's a fine thing, in its place, but war?  
Now that's essential. If the blonde converts  
My dark princess into some kind of peace-loving  
Fanatic, she might even convert Rome.  
I can't lose Caesar. I've spent too much time

Honing his skills, giving him a fanbase if you will.  
If she converts him or kills him, we're in real trouble.  
So you are going to go and help him out. Remember  
Not to physically damage her. Attack her spirit only.  
When that's mine again, her body will be mine  
Again and you know she'll hate that. So what do you  
Say: a get out of Tartarus free card to help me out?

 

 

The Road Splits

 

The attack on the way to Athens was unexpected  
Who would have thought that Caesar would  
Empty his treasury to offer a bounty on my head?  
That's it. It's time to end this once and for all.  
Now I know what you're going to say.  
The last time I went off to assassinate a king,  
I got lucky, and I had your help and your staff.  
This time I cannot take you into Rome,  
Not if you won't defend yourself. Instead,  
You go on to Athens, find Eli. And take this  
Hothead with you. She might just learn something.

 

 

Brutus Makes the Call

 

What do you do when two friends you admire  
Put you in the middle of their war, test your  
Loyalty? This Amazon queen who gave me

Mercy after they caught me fighting her people  
Now is my captive, her and her friends. I promise  
Her that they will not be hurt; they will only serve

As hostages to insure against the assassination  
Attempt that Caesar sees coming. "Caesar,  
After all, is an honorable man," I say.

She laughs, disbelieving, reminds me of other  
Friends of Caesar that he has betrayed with  
Lies and subterfuge. But I am a man for Rome.

I will do my duty. I will take these prisoners  
To the Apennines where they will be safe,  
So Caesar can be safe, for Caesar is Rome.

 

 

C. Catches the Chakram, Again

 

Caesar is stubborn. He doesn't like my plan. He doesn't  
Like it when I touch his face. It's been so long since I've had  
A mortal body and the sense of touch that was not like  
A searing fire. I take fire with me everywhere, but he is  
Like ice. He has no heart, and I respect that. It makes him  
Cold to the touch. His arch-nemesis is also stubborn.

She looks good in Roman armor, so very convincing.  
She sneaks her way into headquarters, plays the guard  
So that even the other guards do not question her. Then,  
When she sees Caesar putting on the gold laurel crown,  
She sees his plan and it galvanizes her. That is when  
The chakram comes out and goes spinning toward his head.

I catch it, of course. That always surprises her. Tsk. You'd  
Think by now she would know, but silly me, I forgot that  
She did not know I was here, back in the mortal world.  
It is so delightful to put fear into those ice blue eyes,  
The ones that watched my family turn to toast, the ones  
That watched me slide into quicksand without remorse.

I stop her assassination attempt, watch her tie Caesar's  
Guards in knots. She gets away, of course, but I follow her,  
Taunt her. I hide Ares' involvement, suspecting that he  
Might not be the greatest inducement for her to go along  
With my plan. I am surprised that she has figured out  
The emperor thing, even the ides of March announcement,

But she was always sharp, like her chakram. She hates it  
That I know about India and Eli, is surprised herself to not  
Be the only clever girl here. She knows that if I know that  
Her soulmate will not defend herself, I have power over her.  
I tell her about the Apennines, suggest I have an offer. Never  
Mind, I will find her later when I need to. I'll have my way.

 

 

Race Against Time

 

At times like this I can almost hear music playing, like  
Some kind of heroic theme song speeding my heart,  
Speeding my horse. The voices call my name. Hell for leather,  
Through the trees, up the hills, across the plains, I ride. 

I catch Brutus with his pants down, so to speak, and  
Give him my promise to offer him information to save  
His life, if he would vow to give me the information  
I need, the whereabouts of the prison Caesar has ordered

The followers of Eli to, the place I already know from my  
Fevered dreams, the place I have been seeing in my mind  
For most of the past year. She has said my dreams are  
Only that, probably because usually she is the one who

Dreams the future, like that time she almost died and I  
Faced the Persian with the double-edged sword. Because  
Of her warning, I lived, she lived. So I do not discount  
Dreams, even if they are my own. I tell him Caesar's plan,

Trusting his word as an honorable man. I tell him  
To beware the ides of March, how Caesar plans to announce  
Himself as Emperor of Rome because he has an ego  
The size of the Aegean. I tell him Caesar's plan to send him

To Gaul, to his own executioners, assassins, call them  
What you will. He looks pole-axed, as well he should, but  
He is in the end truly an honorable man, and he tells me  
That I can find her and the others in a prison at the foot of

Mount Amara. As an afterthought, remembering the dream,  
I ask him, "Was it snowing on Mount Amara?" He says,  
"Yes, it was snowing when I left." My time is short. I must  
Ride as I have never ridden before, ride with the whip

In my hand as I never do. The crucifixes firmly in my mind,  
I ride toward the Apennines, hearing the music of my name,  
As though the wind encouraged me to save the day, against  
All hope of destiny, against all hope of breaking destiny's hold.

 

 

 

In the Roman Prison, G. Accepts the Future

 

Crosses lined the road to the Roman prison, and I recalled  
Your story of your time in Mongolia, when you also lined  
An important road with the heads of important enemies,  
Men like the men you meant to warn, men you intended  
To kill, badly, mutilate and use as symbols. You were like him,

Like Caesar then, intentionally. Just as Callisto claimed that  
You made her, Caesar also made the evil Xena, the one who  
Relished death and destruction, the Destroyer of Nations.  
Reminded of that here, I keep walking with my friends, with  
My mentor, Eli, so different from yours, Lao Ma, and also

Somehow similar. They both teach that stillness can lead  
To something much greater. Brutus, an honorable man,  
I think, believes what he was told that those crucifixes are for  
Pirates, not for us. We know better. We have seen our destiny.  
He is a man caught in the web of his loyalties. I know that you

Are riding toward us like the wind. What else would you do?  
And the little Amazon, in your absence, tries to take charge,  
Tries to liberate us, as you would. I do not help. Eli does not  
Help her. She fails and it comes down to me to save her life,  
To remind Brutus of the mercy I showed him once before.

It is enough. He relents. Mercy wins, for a moment. I ask him  
If he believes the crosses are for pirates. He replies, "Caesar has  
Never lied to me." I say, "There's a first time for everything."  
He now has doubts he did not have before. I don't know whether  
I have done anything to change our destiny. All I can do is hope.

 

 

 

A Moment Changes Everything

 

Maybe I underestimated my enemy's hatred, her burning  
Lust for my decimation. I thought I could fight destiny, as though  
Clotho, Lachesis and Atropos merely made suggestions in the lives  
Of mortals, especially in the lives of mortals like myself.

I liberated the prisoners, set Eli and his followers free, sent  
The little Amazon to protect them, would have sent the bigger  
Amazon but her loyalty to me, even with her new way, kept her  
By my side. I fought with my usual ferocity, but my chakram

In my foe's hands, sent against my unprotected back, was too much.  
In my defense, Gabrielle not only sent a javelin through a man's  
Chest, as she could not before, but she sliced men's throats,  
Pierced men, shredded their bodies with my own sword.

She only stopped after--was it eight? or nine Romans?  
Dragged off back to the prison, helpless once again,  
We faced the truth my dream only suggested: me crippled,  
Her accepting the consequences, again, of our life together.

 

 

Coming to Terms

X.  
Why does it seem that we only ever declare our love  
When one of us is dying? Why does it always take death  
To force us to this brutal honesty of the one thing both of us  
Most cherish? But it does. You nearly die, I nearly die,  
And we say the things we would never otherwise say.  
So, too, now. Callisto, my enemy, tries to tempt me  
With the complete serenity she thinks I want. She offers  
To enter my soul and give me perfect peace, but I know  
Her better. I put my guilt behind me, work at redeeming  
Myself by fighting evil with a sword. But I still think  
I will outrun death. Instead I fall, broken and the Romans  
Are coming at me and she is use javelin and sword to defend  
What you see as my still-savable life. She is ferocious,  
And I feel more guilty than I have ever felt before as she  
Takes them down, brutally kills them. It takes a knife  
Stained with blood to make her see how she has radically  
Stepped away from her Way of Love, and I tried to tell her  
To stop, but the hero in her rose to the surface, made  
The nonviolent zealot stand down. I wish I had never brought  
Her with me on my path, a path where violence kills love.

 

G.  
I take your jaw and pull it toward me. You are upset  
That I am crying, but I promise not to. You are safe  
With me for just a little while longer. Let me look  
At your loved blue eyes, hold your broken body  
In my lap. You blame yourself for making me leave  
The Way of Love, but I had a choice. I could not  
Let you die. I chose the Way of Friendship. You  
Apologize for the times you didn't treat me right,  
But those pale compared to all you have given me.  
You saw me for who I could be, brought out the best  
In me, saved me from a life of invisibility, loved me  
Into being. You apologize for never having read  
My scrolls. "You would have liked them," I say.  
You agree. I turn your face toward me, kiss your  
Forehead, as you have often kissed mine. Our eyes  
Are hungry for one last glance. I am grateful you brought  
Me with you, though our path ends in this last violence.

 

 

 

At the Roman Forum and at the Foot of Mount Amaro, the Road Ends

 

The snow on Mount Amaro is blue in this light,  
As blue as the marble on the floor of the Roman forum.  
We lie here on our crosses shivering, as the soldiers  
Tie us down, but we do not suffer alone. For every blow

Of the soldiers' hammers nailing our hands and feet,  
The senators in Rome are also driving home their  
Long knives into Caesar. Blow for blow, we suffer  
Together, though we are many miles apart. We are dirty,

Bloodstained from our last battle, but the message  
Between us is clear, a love this death cannot end.  
In Rome, Brutus declares his own love, for the city  
And empire of Rome, no longer for his mendacious

Master, whom he holds close as he shoves the last  
Dagger into Caesar's bloody toga. Caesar falls,  
At last, and not at my hands. But your light and mine,  
Blue and pure as the snow on Mount Amaro, rise.


End file.
